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UNIVERSITY  OF        I 
CALIFORNIA  I 

SAN  DIEGO       ! 

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iJL 


fieUs  ^    ^AYAtS    Tl^flKArfS 


A     COMPANION-BOOK 


OF 


PROSE    AND    POETRT 


"My  Books,  ray  best  companions." 

Fletcher 


BOSTON 
JAMES   R.    OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 
1873 


iSntered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1860,  by 

TICK  NOR      A>'D      FIELDS, 

Id  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts 


University    Press: 

Welch,   Bigelow,   and  Company. 

Cam  bridge. 


CONTENTS. 


Paob 

Nathaniel  Hawthorxe  :  A  Virtuoso's  Collection  1 

Alfred  Tennyson  :  Dora 21 

Sir  Walter  Scott  :  A  Tale  of  Witchcraft  .  .  .27 
Robert  Browning  :   One  Word  More       .        .        .  37 

Alexander  Smith  :  In  a  Skye  Bothy  ....  45 
James  Gates  Percival  :  Ruins        ....  66 

Mrs.  Jameson:  A  Revelation  of  Childhood  .  .  .71 
Charles  Sprague  :   To  Montague     ....  89 

Barry  Cornwall:  The  Man-Hunter  .  .  .  .91 
Gerald  Massey:  The  Norseman       ....         106 

Edmund  Bdrke  :   The  Druids 109 

John  G.  Whittier:  The  Witch's  Daughter  .  .  123 
Leigh  Hunt:  The  Old  Lady,  and  The  Old  Grentleman  131 
William  Motherwell  :  A  Sabbath  Summer  Noon  .  140 
Mary  Russell  Mitford  :  The  Incendiary       .        .         1 4/i 


IV  CONTENTS, 

John  G  Saxk:   Wishing 159 

Chables  Robert  Leslie:  The  Great  Portrait-Painters  161 

Walter  Savage  Landor:  To  Age     ....  184 

Matthew  Arnold:  The  Youth  of  Man    .        .        .  185 
Dr.  Arnold  :  Hannibal's  March  into  Italy     .        .        .189 

Henrt  W.  Longfellow:  The  Monk  Felix      .        .  211 
Thomas  De  Quincet:  A  Mountain  Catastrophe  .        .216 

Balph  Waldo  Emerson:  Threnody         .        .        .  240 

John  G.  Lockhart  :  Last  Days  of  Sir  Walter  Scott    .  249 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  :  The  New  Eden    .        .  265 

James  Russell  Lowell  :  Cambridge  Worthies  —  Thirty 

Years  Ago 270 

Bbttina  Von  Arnim:  Boethoven      ....  294 

Sir  Philip  Sidney:   A  Song  from  the  Arcadia    .        .  300 


A  VIRTUOSO'S   COLLECTION, 


By  NATHAMEL  HAWTHORNE. 


THE  other  day,  having  a  leisiire  hour  at  my  disposal,  I 
stepped  into  a  new  museum,  to  which  my  notice  was 
casually  drawn  by  a  small  and  unobtrusive  sign :  "  To  be 

SEEN  HERE,  A  ViRTUOSO'S    COLLECTION."      Such  WaS    the 

simple  yet  not  altogether  unpromising  announcement  that 
turned  my  steps  aside  for  a  little  while  from  the  sunny  side- 
walk of  our  principal  thoroughfare.  Mounting  a  sombre 
staircase,  I  pushed  open  a  door  at  its  summit,  and  found 
myself  in  the  presence  of  a  person,  who  mentioned  the  mod- 
erate sum  that  would  entitle  me  to  admittance. 

"  Three  sliillings,  Massachusetts  tenor,"  said  he.  "  No,  I 
mean  half  a  dollar,  as  you  reckon  in  these  days." 

Wliile  searching  my  pocket  for  the  coin,  I  glanced  at  the 
doorkeeper,  the  marked  character  and  individuality  of  whose 
aspect  encouraged  me  to  expect  something  not  quite  in  the 
ordinary  way.  He  wore  an  old-fashioned  great-coat,  much 
faded,  within  which  his  meagre  person  was  so  completely 
enveloped,  that  the  rest  of  his  attire  was  undistinguishable. 
But  his  visage  was  remarkably  wind-flushed,  sunburnt,  and 
weather-worn,  and  had  a  most  unquiet,  nervous,  and  appre- 
hensive expression.  It  seemed  as  if  this  man  had  some  all- 
important  object  in  view,  some  point  of  deepest  interest 
to  be  decided,  some  momentous  question  to  ask,  might  he 
but  hope  for  a  reply.  As  it  was  eArident,  however,  that  I 
1 


2  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

could  have  nothing  to  do  with  his  private  affairs,  1  passed 
til  rough  an  open  doorway,  which  admitted  me  into  the  exten- 
sive hall  of  the  museum. 

Directly  in  front  of  the  poriul  was  the  bronze  statue  of  a 
youth  with  winged  feet.  He  was  represented  iu  the  act  of 
flitting  at^ay  from  earth,  yet  wore  such  a  look  of  earnest 
invitation  that  it  impressed  me  like  a  summons  to  enter  the 
haU 

"  It  is  the  origuial  statue  of  Opportunity,  by  the  ancient 
sculptor  Lysippus,"  said  a  gentleman  who  now  approached 
me.  "  I  place  it  at  the  entrance  of  my  museum,  because  it 
is  no^.  at  all  times  that  one  can  gain  admittance  to  such  a 
collection." 

The  speaker  was  a  middle-aged  person,  of  whom  it  was 
not  easy  to  determine  whether  he  had  spent  his  life  as  a 
scholar  or  as  a  man  of  action ;  in  truth,  all  outward  and  ob- 
vious peculiarities  had  been  worn  away  by  an  extensive  and 
promiscuous  intercourse  with  the  world.  There  was  no  mark 
about  him  of  profession,  individual  habits,  or  scarcely  of 
country;  although  his  dark  complexion  and  high  features, 
made  me  conjecture  that  he  was  a  native  of  some  southern 
clime  of  Europe.  At  all  events,  he  was  evidently  the  vii"- 
tuoso  in  person. 

"  With  your  permission,"  said  he,  "  as  we  have  no  descrip- 
tive catalogue,  I  will  accompany  you  through  the  museum, 
jmd  point  out  whatever  may  be  most  worthy  of  attention.  In 
the  firet  place,  here  is  a  choice  collection  of  stuffed  animals." 

Nearest  the  door  stood  the  outward  semblance  of  a  wolf, 
exquisitely  prepared,  it  is  true,  and  showing  a  veiy  wolfish 
fierceness  in  the  large  glass  eyes  which  were  inserted  into 
its  wild  and  crafty  head.  Still  it  was  merely  the  skin  of  a 
wolf,  with  nothing  to  distinguish  it  from  other  individuals  of 
that  unlovely  breed. 

"How  does  this  animal  deserve  a  place  in  your  collec 
tion  ?  "  inquired  L 


A  VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION.  3 

"  It  is  the  wolf  that  devoured  Little  Eed  Riding  Hood," 
answered  the  virtuoso ;  "  and  by  his  side  —  with  a  nulder 
and  more  matronly  look,  as  you  perceive  —  stands  the  she- 
wolf  that  suckled  Romulus  and  Remus." 

"  Ah,  indeed ! "  exclaimed  I.  "  And  what  lovely  lamb  is 
this  with  the  snow-white  fleece,  which  seems  to  be  of  as 
deUcate  a  texture  as  innocence  itself?" 

"  Metliinks  you  have  but  carelessly  read  Spenser,'  replied 
my  guide,  "  or  you  would  at  once  recognize  the  '  imlk-white 
lamb '  which  Una  led.  But  I  set  no  great  value  upon  the 
lamb.     The  next  specimen  is  better  worth  our  notice." 

"  What ! "  cried  I,  "  this  strange  animal,  with  the  black 
head  of  an  ox  upon  the  body  of  a  white  horse  ?  Were  ic 
possible  to  suppose  it,  I  should  say  that  tliis  was  Alexander's 
steed  Bucephalus." 

"  The  same,"  said  the  virtuoso.  "  And  can  you  likewiae 
give  a  name  to  the  famous  charger  that  stands  beside  him  ? '' 

Next  to  the  renowned  Bucephalus  stood  the  mere  skeleton 
of  a  horse,  with  the  white  bones  peeping  through  his  iU- 
conditioned  hide ;  but,  if  my  heart  had  not  warmed  towards 
that  pitiful  anatomy,  I  might  as  well  have  quitted  the  museum 
at  once.  Its  rarities  had  not  been  collected  with  pain  and 
toil  from  the  four  quaiters  of  the  earth,  and  from  the  depths 
of  the  sea,  and  from  the  palaces  and  sepulchres  of  agef^  lox 
those  who  could  mistake  this  Ulustrious  steed. 

"  It  is  Rosinante ! "  exclaimed  I,  with  enthusiasm. 

And  so  it  proved.  My  admiration  for  the  Uvible  and 
gallant  horse  caused  me  to  glance  with  less  interest  at  the 
other  animals,  although  many  of  them  might  liave  deserved 
the  notice  of  Cuvier  himself.  There  was  the  donkey  which 
Peter  Bell  cudgelled  so  soundly,  and  a  brother  of  the  same 
species  who  had  suffered  a  similar  infliction  from  the  ancient 
prophet  Balaam.  Some  doubts  were  entertained,  however, 
as  to  the  authenticity  of  the  latter  beast.  My  guide  pointed 
out  the  venerable  Argus,  that  faithful  dog  of  Ulysses,  and 


4  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

Hiio  another  dog,  (for  so  the  skin  bespoke  it,)  which,  though 
Imperfectly  preserved,  seemed  once  to  have  had  three  heads. 
It  was  Cerberus.  I  was  considerably  amused  at  detecting 
in  an  obscure  comer  the  fox  that  became  so  famous  by  the 
loss  of  his  tail.  There  were  several  stuffed  cats,  which,  as  a 
dear  lover  of  that  comfortable  beast,  attracted  my  affection- 
ate regards.  One  was  Dr.  Johnson's  cat  Hodge ;  and  in  the 
same  row  stood  the  favorite  cats  of  Mahomet,  Gray,  and 
"Walter  Scott,  together  with  Puss  in  Boots,  and  a  cat  of  very 
noble  aspect  who  had  once  been  a  deity  of  ancient  Egypt. 
Byron's  tame  bear  came  next.  I  must  not  forget  to  mention 
the  Erymanthean  boar,  the  skin  of  St.  George's  dragon,  and 
that  of  the  serpent  Python ;  and  another  skin  with  beauti- 
fully variegated  hues,  supposed  to  have  been  the  garment 
of  the  "  spirited  sly  snake "  wliich  tempted  Eve.  Against 
the  walls  were  suspended  the  horns  of  the  stag  that  Shake- 
speare shot ;  and  on  the  floor  lay  the  ponderous  shell  of  the 
tortoise  which  fell  upon  the  head  of  JEschylus.  In  one  row, 
as  natural  as  life,  stood  the  sacred  bull  Apis,  the  "  cow  with 
the  crumpled  horn,"  and  a  very  wild-looking  young  heifer, 
which  I  guessed  to  be  the  cow  that  jumped  over  the  moon. 
She  was  probably  killed  by  the  rapidity  of  her  descent.  As 
I  turned  away,  my  eyes  fell  upon  an  indescribable  monster, 
which  proved  to  be  a  griffin. 

"  I  look  in  vain,"  observed  I,  "  for  the  skin  of  an  animal 
which  miglit  well  deserve  the  closest  study  of  a  naturalist,  — 
the  winged  horse  Pegasus." 

"  He  is  not  yet  dead,"  replied  the  virtuoso ;  "  but  he  is  so 
hard  ridden  by  many  young  gentlemen  of  the  day  that  I 
hope  soon  to  add  his  skin  and  skeleton  to  my  collection." 

We  now  passed  to  the  next  alcove  of  the  hall,  in  which 
was  a  multitude  of  stuffed  birds.  They  were  very  prettily 
arranged,  some  upon  the  branches  of  trees,  others  brooding 
upon  nests,  and  othei-s  suspended  by  wires  so  artificially  that 
they  seemed  in  the  very  act  of  flight    Among  them  was  a 


A  VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION.  5 

white  dove,  with  a  withered  branch  of  olive-leaves  in  her 
mouth. 

"  Can  this  be  the  very  dove,"  inquired  I,  "that  brought 
the  message  of  peace  and  hope  to  the  tempest-beaten  pas- 
sengers of  the  ark?" 

"  Even  so,"  said  my  companion. 

"  And  this  raven,  I  suppose,"  continued  I,  "  is  the  same 
that  fed  Elijah  in  the  wilderness." 

"The  raven?  No,"  said  the  virtuoso;  "it  is  a  bird  of 
modem  date.  He  belonged  to  one  Bamaby  Rudge ;  and 
many  people  fancied  that  the  Devil  himself  was  disguised 
under  his  sable  plumage.  But  poor  Grip  has  drawn  his  last 
cork,  and  has  been  forced  to  *  say  die '  at  last.  This  other 
raven,  hardly  less  curious,  is  that  in  which  the  soul  of  King 
George  I.  revisited  his  lady  love,  the  Duchess  of  Kendall." 

My  guide  next  pointed  out  Minerva's  owl  and  the  vulture 
that  preyed  upon  the  liver  of  Prometheus.  There  was  like- 
wise the  sacred  ibis  of  Egypt,  and  one  of  the  Stymphalides 
which  Hercules  shot  in  his  sixth  labor.  Shelley's  skylark, 
Bryant's  water-fowl,  and  a  pigeon  from  the  belfry  of  the  Old 
South  Church,  preserved  by  N.  P.  Willis,  were  placed  on 
the  same  perch.  I  could  not  but  shudder  on  beholding 
Coleridge's  albatross,  transfixed  with  the  Ancient  Mariner's 
crossbow  shaft.  Beside  this  bird  of  awful  poesy  stood  a 
gray  goose  of  very  ordinary  aspect. 

"  Stuffed  goose  is  no  such  rarity,"  observed  I.  "  Why  do 
you  preserve  such  a  specimen  in  your  museum  ?  " 

"  It  is  one  of  the  flock  whose  cackling  saved  the  Romon 
Capitol,"  answered  the  virtuoso.  "  Many  geese  have  cackled 
and  hissed  both  before  and  since ;  but  none,  like  those,  have 
clamored  themselves  into  immortality." 

There  seemed  to  be  little  else  that  demanded  notice  in 
this  department  of  the  museum,  unless  we  except  Robinson 
Crusoe's  parrot,  a  live  phcenix,  a  footless  bird  of  paradise, 
and  a  splendid  peacock,  supposed  to  be  the  same  that  once 


6  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

contained  the  soul  of  Pythagoras.  I  therefore  passed  to  the 
next  alcove,  the  shelves  of  which  were  covered  -with  a  mis- 
cellaneous collection  of  curiosities,  such  as  are  usually  found 
in  similar  establishments.  One  of  the  first  things  that  took 
my  eye  was  a  strange-looking  cap,  woven  of  some  substance 
that  appeared  to  be  neither  woollen,  cotton,  nor  linen. 

"  Is  that  a  magician's  cap  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  replied  the  virtuoso  ;  "  it  is  merely  Dr.  Franklin's 
cap  of  asbestos.  But  here  is  one  which,  perhaps,  may  suit 
you  better.  It  is  the  wishing-cap  of  Fortunatus.  WiU  you 
try  it  on  ?  " 

"By  no  means,"  answered  I,  putting  it  aside  with  my 
hand.  "  The  day  of  wild  wishes  is  past  with  me.  I  desire 
nothing  that  may  not  come  in  the  ordinary  course  of  Provi- 
dence." 

"  Then  probably,"  returned  the  virtuoso,  "  you  will  not  be 
tempted  to  rub  this  lamp  ?  " 

While  speaking,  he  took  from  the  shelf  an  antique  brass 
lamp,  curiously  wrought  with  embossed  figures,  but  so  cov- 
ered with  verdigris  that  the  sculpture  was  almost  eaten 
away. 

"  It  is  a  thousand  years,"  said  he,  "  since  the  genius  of  this 
lamp  constructed  Aladdin's  palace  in  a  single  night.  But 
he  stUl  retains  his  power ;  and  the  man  who  rubs  Aladdin's 
lamp  has  but  to  desire  either  a  palace  or  a  cottage." 

"  I  might  desire  a  cottage,"  replied  I ;  "  but  I  would  have 
It  founded  on  sure  and  stable  truth,  not  on  dreams  and  fan- 
tasies.    I  have  learned  to  look  for  the  real  and  true." 

My  guide  next  showed  me  Prospero's  magic  wand,  broken 
into  three  fragments  by  the  hand  of  its  mighty  master.  On 
the  same  shelf  lay  the  gold  ring  of  ancient  Gyges,  which 
enabled  the  wearer  to  walk  invisible.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  alcove  was  a  tall  looking-glass  in  a  frame  of  ebony,  but 
veiled  with  a  curtain  of  purple  silk,  through  the  rents  of 
which  the  gleam  of  the  mirror  was  perceptible. 


A  VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION  7 

"  This  is  Cornelius  Agrippa's  magic  glass,"  observed  the 
virtuoso.  "  Draw  aside  the  curtain,  and  picture  any  human 
form  within  your  mind,  and  it  will  be  reflected  in  the  mir- 
ror." 

"  It  is  enough  if  I  can  picture  it  within  my  mind,"  an- 
swered I.  "Why  should  I  wish  it  to  be  repeated  in  the 
mirror?  But,  indeed,  these  works  of  magic  have  grown 
wearisome  to  me.  There  are  so  many  greater  wonders  in 
the  world,  to  those  who  keep  their  eyes  open  and  their  sight 
imdimmed  by  custom,  that  all  the  delusions  of  the  old  sorcer- 
ers seem  flat  and  stale.  Unless  you  can  show  me  somethiog 
really  curious,  I  care  not  to  look  farther  into  your  museum." 

"  Ah,  well,  then,"  said  the  virtuoso,  composedly,  "  perhaps 
you  may  deem  some  of  my  antiquarian  rarities  deserving  of 
a  glance." 

He  pointed  out  the  iron  mask,  now  corroded  with  rust ; 
and  my  heart  grew  sick  at  the  sight  of  this  dreadful  relic, 
which  had  shut  out  a  human  being  from  sympathy  with  his 
race.  There  was  nothing  half  so  terrible  in  the  axe  that 
beheaded  King  Charles,  nor  in  the  dagger  that  slew  Henry 
of  Navarre,  nor  in  the  arrow  that  pierced  the  heart  of  Wil- 
liam Rufus,  —  all  of  which  were  shown  to  me.  Many  of  the 
articles  derived  their*  interest,  such  as  it  was,  from  having 
been  formerly  in  the  possession  of  royalty.  For  instance, 
here  was  Charlemagne's  sheep-skin  cloak,  the  flowing  wig  of 
Louis  Quatorze,  the  spinning-wheel  of  Sardanapalus,  and 
King  Steplien's  famous  breeches  which  cost  him  but  a  crown. 
The  heai-t  of  the  Bloody  Mary,  with  the  word  "  Calais  " 
■Nvora  into  its  diseased  substance,  was  preserved  in  a  bottle  of 
spirits ;  and  near  it  lay  the  golden  case  in  wliich  the  queen 
of  Gustavus  Adolphus  treasured  up  that  hero's  heart. 
Among  these  relics  and  heirlooms  of  kings  I  must  not  forget 
the  long,  hairy  ears  of  IVIidas,  and  a  piece  of  bread  which 
had  been  changed  to  gold  by  the  touch  of  that  unlucky  mon- 
arch.    And  as  Grecian  Helen  was  a  queen,  it  may  here  be 


8  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

mentioned  that  I  was  permitted  to  take  into  my  hand  a  lock 
of  her  golden  hair  and  the  bowl  which  a  sculptor  modelled 
from  the  curve  of  her  perfect  breast.  Here,  likewise,  was 
the  robe  that  smothered  Agamemnon,  Nero's  fiddle,  the  Czar 
Peter's  brandy-bottle,  the  crown  of  Semiramis,  and  Canute's 
Bceptre  which  he  extended  over  the  sea.  That  my  o^vn  land 
may  not  deem  itself  neglected,  let  me  add  that  I  was  favored 
with  a  sight  of  the  skull  of  King  Philip,  the  famous  Indian 
chief,  whose  head  the  Puritans  smote  ojff  and  exhibited  upon 
a  pole. 

"  Show  me  somethmg  else,"  said  I  to  the  virtuoso. 
"  Kings  are  in  such  an  artificial  position,  that  people  in  the 
ordinary  walks  of  life  caimot  feel  an  interest  in  their  relics. 
Tf  you  could  show  me  the  straw  hat  of  sweet  little  Nell,  I 
would  far  rather  see  it  than  a  king's  golden  crown." 

"  There  it  is,"  said  my  guide,  pointing  carelessly  with  his 
staJS"  to  the  straw  hat  in  question.  "  But,  indeed,  you  are 
hard  to  please.  Here  are  the  seven-league  boots.  Will  you 
try  them  on  ?  " 

"  Our  modern  railroads  have  superseded  their  use,"  an- 
swered I ;  "  and  as  to  these  cowhide  boots,  I  could  show  you 
quite  as  curious  a  pair  at  the  Transcendental  community  in 
Koxbury." 

We  next  examined  a  collection  of  swords  and  other  weap- 
ons, belonging  to  different  epochs,  but  thrown  together  with- 
out much  attempt  at  arrangement.  Here  was  Arthur's  sword 
Excalibar,  and  that  of  the  Cid  Campeador,  and  the  sword  of 
Brutus  rusted  with  Caesar's  blood  and  his  own,  and  the  sword 
of  Joan  of  Arc,  and  that  of  Horatius,  and  that  with  which 
Virginius  slew  his  daughter,  and  the  one  which  Dionysius 
suspended  over  the  head  of  Damocles.  Here  also  was  Ar- 
ria's  sword,  which  she  plunged  into  her  own  breast,  in  order 
to  taste  of  death  before  her  husband.  The  crooked  blade  of 
Saladin's  cimeter  next  attracted  my  notice.  I  know  not  by 
what  chance,  but  so  it  happened,  that  the  sword  of  one  of  our 


A  VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION.  9 

militia-generals  was  suspended  between  Don  Quixote's  lance 
and  the  brown  blade  of  Hudibras.  My  heart  throbbed  high 
at  the  sight  of  the  helmet  of  Miltiades  and  the  spear  that 
was  broken  in  the  breast  of  Epaminondas.  I  recognized 
the  shield  of  Achilles  by  its  resemblance  to  the  admirable 
cast  in  the  possession  of  Professor  Felton.  Notliing  in  this 
apartment  interested  me  more  than  Major  Pitcaim's  pistol, 
the  discharge  of  which,  at  Lexington,  began  the  war  of  the 
Revolution,  and  was  reverberated  in  thimder  around  the  land 
for  seven  long  years.  The  bow  of  Ulysses,  though  unstrung 
for  ages,  was  placed  against  the  wall,  together  with  a  sheaf 
of  Robin  Hood's  arrows  and  the  rifle  of  Daniel  Boone. 

"Enough  of  weapons,"  said  I,  at  length;  "although  I 
would  gladly  have  seen  the  sacred  shield  wliich  fell  from 
heaven  in  the  time  of  Numa.  And  surely  you  should  obtain 
the  sword  which  "Washington  unsheathed  at  Cambridge. 
But  the  collection  does  you  much  credit.     Let  us  pass  on." 

Li  the  next  alcove  we  saw  the  golden  thigh  of  Pythago- 
ras, wliich  had  so  divine  a  meaning ;  and,  by  one  of  the  queer 
analogies  to  which  the  virtuoso  seemed  to  be  addicted,  tliis 
ancient  emblem  lay  on  the  same  shelf  with  Peter  Stuyve- 
sant's  wooden  leg,  tha^f  was  fabled  to  be  of  silver.  Here  was 
a  remnant  of  the  Golden  Fleece,  and  a  sprig  of  yellow  leaves 
that  resembled  the  foli&ge  of  a  frost-bitten  elm,  but  was  duly 
authenticated  as  a  portion  of  the  golden  branch  by  which 
JEneas  gained  admittance  to  the  realm  of  Pluto.  Atalanta's 
golden  apple  and  one  of  the  apples  of  discord  were  wrapped 
in  the  napkin  of  gold  which  Rhampsinitus  brought  from  Ha- 
des ;  and  the  whole  were  deposited  in  the  golden  vase  of 
Bias,  with  its  inscription :  "  To  the  wisest." 

"  And  how  did  you  obtain  this  vase  ? "  said  I  to  the  vir- 
tuoso. 

"  It  was  given  me  long  ago,"  replied  he,  with  a  scornful 
expression  in  his  eye,  "  because  I  had  learned  to  despise  all 
things." 


10  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

It  had  not  escaped  me  that,  though  the  virtuoso  was  evi« 
dently  a  man  of  high  cultivation,  yet  he  seemed  to  lack  sym- 
pathy with  the  spiritual,  the  sublime,  and  the  tender.  Apart 
from  the  whim  that  had  led  him  to  devote  so  much  time, 
pains,  and  expense  to  the  collection  of  this  museum,  he  im- 
pressed me  as  one  of  the  hardest  and  coldest  men  of  thq 
world  whom  I  had  ever  met. 

"  To  despise  all  things ! "  repeated  L  "  Tliis,  at  best,  is 
the  wisdom  of  the  understanding.  It  is  the  creed  of  a  man 
whose  soul,  whose  better  and  diviner  part,  has  never  beei» 
awakened,  or  has  died  out  of  him." 

"  I  did  not  think  you  were  still  so  young,"  said  the  vir- 
tuoso. "  Should  you  live  to  my  years,  you  will  acknowledge 
tliat  the  vase  of  Bias  was  not  ill  bestowed." 

Without  further  discussion  of  the  point,  he  directed  my 
attention  to  other  curiosities.  I  examined  Cinderella's  little 
glass  slipper,  and  compared  it  with  one  of  Diana's  sandals, 
and  with  Fanny  Elssler's  shoe,  which  bore  testimony  to  the 
muscular  character  of  her  illustrious  foot.  On  the  same 
shelf  were  Thomas  the  Rhymer's  green  velvet  shoes,  and 
the  brazen  shoe  of  Empedocles  which  was  thrown  out  of 
Mount  -<Etna.  Anacreon's  drinking-cup  was  placed  in  apt 
juxtaposition  with  one  of  Tom  Moore's  wine-glasses  and 
Circe's  magic  bowl.  These  were  symbols  of  luxury  and 
riot;  but  near  them  stood  the  cup  whence  Socrates  drank 
his  hemlock,  and  that  which  Sir  Philip  Sidney  put  from  his 
death-parched  lips  to  bestow  the  draught  upon  a  dying  sol- 
dier. Next  appeared  a  cluster  of  tobacco-pipes,  consisting 
of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's,  the  earliest  on  record.  Dr.  Parr's, 
Charles  Lamb's,  and  the  fii^st  calumet  of  peace  which  was 
ever  smoked  between  a  European  and  an  Indian.  Among 
other  musical  instruments,  I  noticed  the  lyre  of  Orpheus  and 
those  of  Homer  and  Sappho,  Dr.  Frankhn's  famous  whistle, 
the  trumpet  of  Anthony  Van  Corlear,  and  the  flute  which 
Goldsmith  played  upon  in  his  rambles  tlu-ough  the  French 


A  VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION.  11 

provinces.  The  staff  of  Peter  the  Hermit  stood  ii.  a  comer 
with  that  of  good  old  Bishop  Jewel,  and  one  of  ivory,  wliich 
had  belonged  to  Papirius,  the  Roman  Senator.  The  pon- 
derous club  of  Hercules  was  close  at  hand.  The  virtuoso 
showed  me  the  chisel  of  Phidias,  Claude's  palette,  and  the 
brush  of  Apelles,  observing  that  he  intended  to  bestow 
th(!  former  either  on  Greenough,  Crawford,  or  Powers,  and 
the  two  latter  upon  "Washington  AUston.  There  was  a  small 
vase  of  oracular  gas  from  Delphos,  which  I  trust  will  be 
submitted  to  the  scientific  analysis  of  Professor  Silliman.  I 
was  deeply  moved  on  beholding  a  vial  of  the  tears  into  which 
Niobe  was  dissolved ;  nor  less  so  on  learning  that  a  shapeless 
fragment  of  salt  was  a  relic  of  that  victim  of  despondency 
and  sinful  regrets.  Lot's  wife.  My  companion  appeared 
to  set  great  value  upon  some  Egyptian  darkness  in  a  black- 
ing-jug. Several  of  the  shelves  were  covered  by  a  collec- 
tion of  coins,  among  which,  however,  I  remember  none  but 
the  Si)lcndid  Shilling,  celebrated  by  Pliillips,  and  a  dollar's 
worth  of  the  iron  money  of  Lycurgus,  weighing  about  fifty 
pounds. 

"Walking  carelessly  onward,  I  had  nearly  fallen  over  a 
huge   bundle, "  Kke  a  -pedler's  pack,  done   up'  in  sackcloth, 
and  very  securely  strajjped  and  corded. 
• "  It  is  Christian's  burden  of  sin,"  said  the  virtuoso. 

"  O,  pray  let  us  open  it ! "  cried  I.  "  For  many  a  year 
I  have  longed  to  know  its  contents." 

"  Look  into  your  own  consciousness  and  memory,"  replied 
the  virtuoso.  "You  wUl  there  find  a  list  of  whatever  it 
contains." 

As  this  was  an  undeniable  truth,  I  threw  a  melancholy 
look  at  the  burden  and  passed  on.  A  collection  of  old  gar- 
ments, hanging  on  pegs^  was  worthy  of  some  attention,  es- 
pecially the  sliirt  of  Nessus,  Caesar's  mantle,  Joseph's  coat 
of  many  colors,  the  "Vicar  of  Bray's  cassock,  Goldsmith's 
peach-bloom  suit,   a  pair  of  President  Jefferson's  scarlet 


12  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

breeches,  John  Kandolph'g  red-baize  hunting-shirt,  the  drab 
small-clothes  of  the  Stout  Gentleman,  and  the  rags  of  the 
"  man  all  tattered  and  torn."  George  Fox's  hat  impressed 
me  with  deep  reverence  as  a  relic  of  perhaps  the  truest 
apostle  that  has  appeared  on  earth  for  these  eighteen  hun- 
dred years.  My  eye  was  next  attracted  by  an  old  pair  of 
sheai-s,  which  I  should  have  taken  for  a  memorial  of  some 
famous  tailor,  only  that  the  virtuoso  pledged  his  veracity  that 
they  were  the  identical  scissors  of  Atropos.  He  also  showed 
me  a  broken  hour-glass  which  had  t)een  thrown  aside  by 
Father  Time,  together  with  the  old  gentleman's  gray  fore- 
lock, tastefully  braided  into  a  brooch.  In  the  hour-glass  was 
the  handful  of  sand,  the  grains  of  which  had  numbered  the 
years  of  the  Cumtean  sibyl.  I  think  that  it  was  in  this 
alcove  that  I  saw  the  inkstand  which  Luther  tlu-ew  at  the 
Devil,  and  the  ring  which  Essex,  while  under  sentence  of 
death,  sent  to  Queen  Elizabeth.  And  here  was  the  blood- 
incrusted  pen  of  steel  with  which  Faust  signed  away  his 
salvation. 

The  virtuoso  now  opened  the  door  of  a  closet,  and  showed 
me  a  lamp  burning,  while  three  others  stood  unliglited  by  its 
side.  One  of  the  three  was  the  lamp  of  Diogenes,  another 
that  of  Guy  Fawkes,  and  the  tliird  that  wliich  Hero  set  forth 
to  the  midnight  breeze  in  the  high  tower  of  Abydos. 

"  See ! "  said  the  virtuoso,  blowing  with  all  his  force  at  the 
lighted  lamp. 

The  flame  quivered  and  shrank  away  from  his  breath,  but 
clung  to  the  wick,  and  resimied  its  brilliancy  as  soon  as  the 
blast  was  exhausted. 

"  It  is  an  undying  lamp  from  the  tomb  of  Chai'lemagne," 
observed  my  guide.  "That  flame  was  kindled  a  thousand 
years  ago." 

"  How  ridiculous  to  kindle  an  unnatural  light  in  tombs  ! " 
exclaimed  I.  "  We  should  seek  to  behold  the  dead  in  the 
light  of  lieaven.  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  tliis  chafing- 
dish  of  KlowinjT  coals/* " 


A  VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION.  13 

"  That,"  answered  the  virtuoso,  "  is  the  original  fire  which 
Prometheus  stole  from  heaven.  Look  steadfastly  iato  it, 
and  you  will  discern  another  curiosity." 

I  gazed  into  that  fire,  —  which,  symbolically,  was  the  origin 
of  all  that  was  bright  and  glorious  in  the  soul  of  man,  —  and 
in  the  midst  of  it,  behold,  a  little  reptile,  sporting  mth  evi- 
dent enjoyment  of  the  fervid  heat !    It  was  a  salamander. 

"  What  a  sacrilege ! "  cried  I,  with  inexpressible  disgust. 
"  Can  you  find  no  better  use  for  this  ethereal  fire  than  to 
cherish  a  loathsome  reptUe  in  it  ?  Yet  there  are  men  who 
abuse  the  sacred  fire  of  their  own  souls  to  as  foul  and 
guilty  a  purpose." 

The  virtuoso  made  no  answer  except  by  a  dry  laugh  and 
an  assurance  that  the  salamander  was  the  very  same  which 
Benvenuto  Cellini  had  seen  in  his  father's  household  fire. 
He  then  proceeded  to  show  me  other  rarities  ;  for  this  closet 
appeared  to  be  the  receptacle  of  what  he  considered  moj-t 
valuable  in  his  collection. 

"  There,"  said  he,  "  is  the  Great  Carbuncle  of  the  White 
Mountains." 

I  gazed  with  no  little  interest  at  this  mighty  gem,  which  it 
had  been  one  of  th«  wild  projects  of  my  youth  to  discover. 
Possibly  it  might  have  looked  brighter  to  me  in  those  days 
than  now ;  at  all  events,  it  had  not  such  brilliancy  as  to  detain 
me  long  from  the  other  articles  of  the  museum.  The  virtu- 
oso pointed  out  to  me  a  crystalline  stone  which  hung  by  a 
gcli  chain  against  the  wall. 

''  That  is  the  philosopher's  stone,"  said  he. 

"  And  have  you  the  elixir  vitae  which  generally  accompa- 
nies it  ?  "  inquu'ed  I. 

"  Even  so ;  this  urn  is  filled  with  it,"  he  replied.  "  A 
draught  would  refresh  you.  Here  is  Hebe's  cup ;  will  you 
quaff  a  health  from  it  ?  " 

My  heart  thrilled  within  me  at  the  idea  of  snch  a  reviving 
di-augl.t;  for  methought  I  had  great  need  of  it  after  travel 


H  KATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

ling  so  far  on  the  dusty  road  of  life.  But  I  know  not  whether 
it  were  a  peculiar  glance  in  the  virtuoso's  eye,  or  the  circum- 
stance that  this  most  jjrecious  liquid  was  contained  in  an  an- 
tique sepulchral  urn,  that  made  me  pause.  Then  came  many 
a  thought  with  which,  in  the  calmer  and  better  hours  of  lifo^ 
I  had  strengthened  myself  to  feel  that  Death  is  the  very 
friend  whom,  in  his  due  season,  even  the  happiest  mortal 
sliould  be  wilUng  to  embrace. 

"  No  ;  I  desire  not  an  earthly  immortality,"  said  L 
*^  Were  man  to  live  longer  on  the  earth,  the  spiritual  woidd 
die  out  of  him.  The  spark  of  ethereal  fire  would  be  choked 
by  the  material,  the  sensual.  There  is  a  celestial  something 
within  us  that  requires,  after  a  certain  time,  the  atmosphere 
of  heaven  to  preserve  it  from  decay  and  ruin.  I  will  have 
none  of  this  liquid.  You  do  well  to  keep  it  in  a  sepulchral 
um ;  for  it  would  produce  death  while  bestowing  the  shadow 
of  life." 

"  All  this  is  unintelligible  to  me,"  responded  my  guide, 
with  indifference.  "  Life  —  earthly  life  —  is  the  only  good. 
But  you  refuse  the  draught  ?  Well,  it  is  not  Hkely  to  be 
offered  twice  witliin  one  man's  experience.  Probably  you 
have  griefs  which  you  seek  to  forget  in  death.  I  can  enable 
you  to  forget  them  in  life.  Will  you  take  a  draught  of 
Lethe?" 

As  he  spoke,  the  virtuoso  took  from  the  shelf  a  crystal 
vase  containing  a  sable  liquor,  which  caught  no  reflected 
innage  from  the  objects  around. 

"  Not  for  the  world  ! "  exclaimed  I,  shrinking  back.  "  I 
can  spare  none  of  my  recollections,  not  even  those  of  error 
or  sorrow.  They  are  all  alike  the  food  of  my  spirit.  Aa 
well  never  to  have  lived  as  to  lose  them  now." 

Without  further  parley  we  passed  to  the  next  alcove,  the 
shelves  of  which  were  burdened  with  ancient  volumes  and 
with  those  rolls  of  papyrus  in  which  was  treasured  up  the 
eldest  wisdom  of  the  earth.     Perhaps  the  most  valuable 


A  VIKTUOSO'S  COLLECTION.  15 

work  in  the  collection,  to  a  bibliomaniac,  was  the  Book  of 
Hermes.  For  my  part,  however,  I  would  have  given  a 
higher  price  for  those  six  of  the  Sibyl's  books  which  Tarquin 
refused  to  purchase,  and  which  the  virtuoso  informed  me  he 
had  himself  found  in  the  cave  of  Trophonius.  Doubtless 
these  old  volumes  contain  prophecies  of  the  fate  :f  Ectne, 
both  as  respects  the  decline  and  fall  of  her  temporal  empire 
and  the  rise  of  her  spiritual  one.  Not  without  value,  like- 
wise, was  the  work  of  Anaxagoras  on  Nature,  hitherto  sup 
posed  to  be  irrecoverably  lost,  and  the  missing  treatises  of 
Longinus,  by  which  modem  criticism  might  profit,  and  those 
books  of  Livy  for  which  the  classic  student  has  so  long  sor- 
rowed without  hope.  Among  these  precious  tomes  I  observed 
the  original  manuscript  of  the  Koran,  and  also  that  of  the 
Mormon  Bible  in  Joe  Smith's  authentic  autograph.  Alex- 
ander's copy  of  the  Iliad  was  also  there,  enclosed  in  the 
jewelled  casket  of  Darius,  still  fragrant  of  the  perfumes 
which  the  Pei-siau  kept  in  it. 

Opening  an  iron-clasped  volume,  bound  in  black  leather,  1 
discovered  it  to  be  Comeliizs  Agrippa's  book  of  magic ;  and 
it  was  rendei'ed  stiU  more  interesting  by  the  fact  that  many 
flowers,  ancient  and  modem,  were  pressed  between  its  leaves. 
Here  was  a  rose  from  Eve's  bridal  bower,  and  all  those  red 
and  white  roses  which  were  plucked  in  the  garden  of  the 
Temple  by  the  partisans  of  York  and  Lancaster.  Here  was 
Halleck's  Wild  Rose  of  Alloway.  Cowper  had  contributed 
a  Sensitive-Plant,  and  Wordsworth  an  Eglantine,  and  Bums 
a  Mountain  Daisy,  and  Kirke  White  a  Star  of  Bethlehem, 
and  Longfellow  a  Sprig  of  Fennel,  with  its  yellow  flowei-s. 
James  Russell  Lowell  had  given  a  Pressed  Flower,  but  fra- 
grant still,  which  had  been  shadowed  in  the  Rhine.  There 
was  also  a  sprig  from  Southey's  Holly-Tree.  One  of  the 
most  beautiful  specimens  was  a  Fringed  Gentian,  which 
had  been  [)lucked  and  preserved  lor  immortality  by  Bryant. 
From  Jones  Very,  a  poet  whose  voice  is  scarcely  heai-d 


16  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

among  us  by  reason  of  its  depth,  there  was  a  "Windjflower 
and  a  Columbine. 

As  I  closed  Cornelius  Agrippa's  magic  volume,  an  old, 
mildewed  letter  fell  upon  the  floor.  It  proved  to  be  an  au- 
tograph from  the  Flying  Dutchman  to  his  wife.  I  could 
linger  no  longer  among  books ;  for  the  afternoon  was  waning, 
and  there  was  yet  much  to  see.  The  bare  mention  of  a  few 
more  curiosities  must  suffice.  The  immense  skull  of  Poly- 
phemus was  recognizable  by  the  cavernous  hollow  in  the 
centre  of  the  forehead  where  once  had  blazed  the  giant's 
single  eye.  The  tub  of  Diogenes,  Medea's  caldron,  and 
Psyche's  vase  of  beauty  were  placed  one  within  another. 
Pandora's  box,  without  the  lid,  stood  next,  containing  noth- 
ing but  the  girdle  of  Venus,  which  had  been  carelessly  flung 
into  it.  A  bundle  of  birch  rods  which  had  been  used  by 
Shenstone's  schoolmistress  were  tied  up  with  the  Countess 
of  Salisbury's  garter.  I  know  not  which  to  value  most,  a 
roc's  egg  as  big  as  an  ordinary  hogshead,  or  the  shell  of  the 
egg  wliich  Columbus  set  upon  its  end.  Perhaps  the  most 
delicate  article  in  the  whole  museum  was  Queen  Mab's 
chaidot,  which,  to  guard  it  from  the  touch  of  meddlesome 
fingers,  was  placed  under  a  glass  tumbler. 

Several  of  the  shelves  were  occupied  by  specimens  of 
entomology.  Feeling  but  little  interest  in  the  science,  I 
noticed  only  Anacreon's  grasshopper,  and  a  humble-bee  which 
had  been  presented  to  the  virtuoso  by  Ralph  "Waldo  Emerson. 

In  the  part  of  the  hall  which  we  had  now  reached  I  ob- 
served a  curtain,  that  descended  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor 
in  voluminous  folds,  of  a  depth,  richness,  and  magnificence 
which  I  had  never  seen  equalled.  It  was  not  to  be  doubted 
that  this  splendid  though  dark  and  solemn  veil  concealed  a 
portion  of  the  museum  even  richer  in  wonders  than  that 
through  which  I  had  already  passed  ;  but,  on  my  attempting 
to  grasp  the  edge  of  the  curtain  and  draw  it  aside,  it  proved 
to  be  an  illusive  picture. 


A   VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION,  17 

"  You  need  not  blush,"  remarked  the  virtuoso  ;  "  for  that 
same  curtain  deceived  Zeuxis.  It  is  the  celebrated  painting 
of  Parrhasius." 

In  a  range  with  the  curtain  there  were  a  number  of  other 
choice  pictures  by  artists  of  ancient  days.  Here  was  the  fa- 
mous cluster  of  grapes  by  Zeuxis,  so  admirably  depicted  that 
it  seemed  as  if  the  ripe  juice  were  bm^ting  forth.  As  to 
the  picture  of  the  old  woman  by  the  same  illustrious  painter, 
and  which  was  so  ludicrous  that  he  himself  died  with  laugh- 
ing at  it,  I  cannot  say  that  it  particularly  moved  my  risibility. 
Ancient  humor  seems  to  have  little  power  over  modem  mus- 
cles. Here,  also,  was  the  horse  painted  by  Apelles,  which 
living  horses  neighed  at ;  his  first  portrait  of  Alexander 
the  Great ;  and  his  last  unfinished  picture  of  Venus  asleep. 
Each  of  these  works  of  art,  together  with  others  by  Parrha- 
sius, Timanthes,  Polygnotus,  ApoUodorus,  Pausias,  and  Pam- 
philus,  required  more  time  and  study  than  I  could  bestow  for 
the  adequate  perception  of  their  merits.  I  shall  therefore 
leave  them  undescribed  and  uncriticised,  nor  attempt  to 
settle  the  question  of  superiority  between  ancient  and  mod- 
em art. 

For  the  sa-me  reason  I  shall  pass  lightly  over  the  speci- 
mens of  antique  sculpture  which  this  indefatigable  and  for- 
tunate virtuoso  had  dilg  out  of  the  dust  of  fallen  empires. 
Here  was  -^tion's  cedar  statue  of  ^sculapius,  much  de- 
cayed, and  Alcon's  iron  statue  of  Hercules,  lamentably 
rusted.  Here  was  the  statue  of  Victory,  six  feet  high,  which 
the  Jupiter  Olympus  of  Phidias  had  held  in  his  hand.  Here 
was  a  forefinger  of  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes,  seven  feet  in 
length.  Here  was  the  Venus  Urania  of  Phidias,  and  other 
images  of  male  and  female  beauty  or  grandeur,  wrought  by 
sculptore  who  appear  never  to  have  debased  their  souls  by 
the  sight  of  any  meaner  forms  than  those  of  gods  or  godlike 
mortals.  But  the  deep  simplicity  of  these  great  works  was 
not  to  be  comprehended  by  a  mind  excited  and  disturbed,  aa 

2 


18  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

mine  was,  by  tlie  various  objects  that  had  recently  been  pre- 
sented to  it.  I  therefore  turned  away  with  merely  a  passing 
glance,  resolving  on  some  future  occasion  to  brood  over  each 
individual  statue  and  picture  until  my  inmost  spirit  should 
feel  their  excellence.  In  this  department,  again,  I  noticed 
the  tendency  to  whimsical  combinations  and  ludicrous  analo- 
gies which  seemed  to  influence  many  of  the  arrangements  of 
the  museum.  The  wooden  statue  so  well  known  as  the 
Palladium  of  Troy  was  placed  in  close  apposition  with  the 
wooden  head  of  Greneral  Jackson  which  was  stolen  a  few 
years  since  from  the  bows  of  the  frigate  Constitution. 

We  had  now  completed  the  circuit  of  the  spacious  hall, 
and  found  ourselves  again  near  the  door.  Feeling  somewhat 
wearied  with  the  survey  of  so  many  novelties  and  antiqui- 
ties, I  sat  down  upon  Cowper's  sofa,  while  the  virtuoso  threw 
himself  carelessly  into  Rabelais's'  easy-chair.  Casting  my 
eyes  upon  the  opposite  wall,  I  was  surprised  to  perceive  the 
shadow  of  a  man  flickering  imsteadily  across  the  wainscot, 
and  looking  as  if  it  were  stirred  by  some  breath  of  air  that 
found  its  way  through  the  door  or  windows.  No  substantial 
figure  was  visible  from  which  this  shadow  might  be  thrown  ; 
nor,  had  there  been  such,  was  there  any  sunshine  that  would 
have  caused  it  to  darken  upon  the  wall. 

"  It  is  Peter  Sclilemihl's  shadow,"  observed  the  virtuoso, 
"  and  one  of  the  most  valuable  articles  in  my  collection." 

"  MjBthinks  a  shadow  would  liave  made  a  fitting  doorkeeper 
to  such  a  museum,"  said  I ;  "  although,  indeed,  yonder  figure 
has  something  strange  and  fantastic  about  him,  which  suits 
well  enough  with  many  of  the  impressions  wliich  I  have 
received  here.     Pray,  who  is  he  ?  " 

While  speaking,  I  gazed  more  scrutinizingly  than  before 
at  the  antiquated  presence  of  the  person  who  had  admitted 
me,  and  who  still  sat  on  his  bench  with  the  same  restless 
aspect,  and  dim,  confused,  questioning  anxiety  that  I  had 
noticed  on  my  first  entrance.    At  this  moment  he  looked 


A  VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION.  19 

eagerly  toward  us,  and,  half  starting  from  Ms  seat,  addressed 
me. 

"  I  beseech  you,  kind  sir,"  said  he,  in  a  cracked,  melan- 
choly tone,  "  have  pity  on  the  most  unfortunate  man  in  the 
world.  For  Heaven's  sake,  answer  me  a  single  question ! 
Is  this  the  town  of  Boston  ?  " 

"  You  have  recognized  him  now,"  said  the  virtuoso.  "  It 
is  Peter  Pugg,  the  missing  man.  I  chanced  to  meet  him 
the  other  day  stiU  in  search  of  Boston,  and  conducted  him 
hither ;  and,  as  he  could  not  succeed  in  finding  his  friends,  I 
have  taken  him  into  my  service  as  doorkeeper.  He  is  some- 
what too  apt  to  ramble,  but  otherwise  a  man  of  trust  and 
integrity." 

"  And  might  I  venture  to  ask,"  continued  I,  "  to  whom  am 
I  indebted  for  this  afternoon's  gratification  ?  " 

The  virtuoso,  before  replying,  laid  hia  hand  upon  an  an- 
tique dart  or  javelin,  the  rusty  steel  head  of  which  seemed 
to  have  been  blunted,  as  if  it  had  encountered  the  resistance 
of  a  tempered  shield,  or  breastplate. 

"  My  name  has  not  been  without  its  distinction  in  the 
world  for  a  longer  period  than  that  of  any  other  man  alive," 
answered  he.  "  Yet  many  doubt  of  my  existence  ;  perhaps 
you  will  do  so  to-morrow.  This  dart  which  I  hold  in  my 
hand  was  once  grim  Dfeath's  own  weapon.  It  served  him 
well  for  the  space  of  four  thousand  years  ;  but  it  fell  blunted 
as  you  see,  when  he  directed  it  against  my  breast." 

These  words  were  spoken  with  the  calm  and  cold  courtesy 
of  manner  that  had  characterized  this  singular  personage 
throughout  our  interview.  I  fancied,  it  is  true,  that  there 
was  a  bitterness  indefinably  mingled  with  his  tone,  as  of  one 
cut  off  from  natural  sympathies  and  blasted  with  a  doom  that 
had  been  inflicted  on  no  other  human  being,  and  by  the  re- 
sults of  which  he  had  ceased  to  be  human.  Yet,  withal,  it 
seemed  one  of  the  most  terrible  consequences  of  that  doom 
that  the  victim  no  longer  regarded  it  as  a  calamity,  but  had 


20  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 

finally  accepted  it  as  the  greatest  good  that  could  Lave 
befallen  him. 

"  You  are  the  Wandering  Jew ! "  exclaimed  I. 

The  virtuoso  bowed,  without  emotion  of  any  kind,  for,  by 
centuries  of  custom,  he  had  almost  lost  the  sense  of  strange- 
ness in  his  fate,  and  was  but  imperfectly  conscious  of  the 
astonishment  and  awe  with  which  it  affected  such  as  are 
capable  of  death. 

"  Your  doom  is  indeed  a  fearful  one  ! "  said  I,  with  irre- 
pressible feeling  and  a  frankness  that  afterwards  startled  me ; 
"  yet  perhaps  the  ethereal  spirit  is  not  entirely  extinct  under 
all  this  corrupted  or  frozen  mass  of  eartlily  life.  Perhaps 
the  immortal  spark  may  yet  be  rekindled  by  a  breath  of 
heaven.  Perhaps  you  may  yet  be  permitted  to  die  before  it 
is  too  late  to  live  eternally.  You  have  my  prayers  for  such 
a  consummation.     Farewell." 

"  Your  prayers  will  be  in  vain,"  replied  he,  with  a  smUe  of 
cold  triumph.  "  My  destiny  is  linked  with  the  realities  of 
earth.  You  are  welcome  to  your  visions  and  shadows  of  a 
future  state ;  but  give  me  what  I  can  see,  and  touch,  and 
understand,  and  I  ask  no  more." 

"  It  is  indeed  too  late,"  thought  I.  "  The  soul  is  dead 
within  him." 

Struggling  between  pity  and  horror,  I  extended  my  hand, 
to  which  the  virtuoso  gave  his  own,  still  with  the  habitual 
courtesy  of  a  man  of  the  world,  but  without  a  single  heart- 
throb of  human  brotherhood.  The  touch  seemed  like  ice, 
yet  I  know  not  whether  morally  or  physically.  As  I  de- 
parted, he  bade  me  observe  that  the  inner  door  of  the  hall 
was  constructed  with  the  ivory  leaves  of  the  gateway 
through  wlaich  iEneas  and  the  Sibyl  had  been  disniissed 
from  Hades. 


DORA. 

By  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


Wmi  Farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 
"William  and  Dora.     William  was  his  son, 
And  she  his  niece.     He  often  looked  at  them, 
And  often  thought,  "  I  '11  make  them  man  and  wife." 
Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  all, 
And  yearned  towards  William ;  but  the  youth,  because 
He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the  house. 
Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day 
When  Allan  called  his  son,  and  said,  "  My  son : 
I  married  late,  but  I  would  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I  die  : 
And  I  have  set  my  hesfrt  upon  a  match. 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora ;  she  is  well 
To  look  to ;  thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter :  he  and  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and  he  died 
In  foreign  lands  ;  but  for  his  sake  I  bred 
His  daughter  Dora :  take  her  for  your  wife  ; 
For  I  have  wished  this  marriage,  night  and  day, 
For  many  years."     But  William  answered  short: 
"  I  cannot  marry  Dora  ;  by  my  life, 
I  wiU  not  marry  Dora."    Then  the  old  man 
Waa  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands,  and  said : 


22  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

•'  You  will  not,  boy !  you  dare  to  answer  thus  I 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was  law, 
And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.     Look  to 't ; 
Consider,  William :  take  a  month  to  think, 
And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish ; 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you  shall  pack, 
And  nevermore  darken  my  doors  again ! " 
But  William  answered  madly ;  bit  his  lips, 
And  broke  away.     The  more  he  looked  at  her, 
The  less  he  liked  her ;  and  his  ways  were  harsh ; 
But  Dora  bore  them  meekly.     Then  before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father's  house. 
And  hired  liimself  to  work  within  the  fields ; 
And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  wooed  and  wed 
A  laborer's  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 

Then,  when  the  bells  were  ringing,  Allan  called 
His  niece  and  said :  "  My  girl,  I  love  you  well ; 
But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was  my  son. 
Or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his  wife. 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.     My  will  is  law." 
And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.     She  thought, 
"  It  cannot  be  :  my  uncle's  mind  will  change  ! " 

And  days  went  on,  and  there  was  bom  a  boy 
To  William  ;  then  distresses  came  on  him ; 
And  day  by  day  he  passed  his  father's  gate. 
Heart-broken,  and  his  father  helped  him  not. 
But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could  save, 
And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did  they  know 
Who  sent  it ;  till  at  last  a  fever  seized 
On  William,  and  in  harvest-time  he  died- 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.    Mary  sat 
And  looked  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and  thought 


DORA.  23 

Hard  things  of  Dora.     Dora  came  and  said : 

"  I  have  obeyed  my  xmcle  until  now, 

And  I  have  sinned,  for  it  was  all  through  me 

Tliis  evil  came  on  "William  at  the  first. 

But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  gone, 

And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he  chose, 

And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you : 

You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these  five  years 

So  full  a  harvest :  let  me  take  the  boy, 

And  I  wiU  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 

Among  the  wheat ;  that  when  his  heart  is  glad 

Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy. 

And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  gone. 

And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went  her  way 
Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a  mound 
That  was  unsown ;  where  many  poppies  grew. 
Far  ofi"  the  farmer  came  into  the  field. 
And  spied  her  not ;  for  none  of  all  his  men 
Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the  child  ; 
And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to  him, 
But  her  heart  failed  her ;  and  the  reapers  reaped, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 
t 

But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose  and  took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the  mound ; 
And  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 
That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his  hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's  eye. 
Then  when  the  farmer  passed  into  the  field 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at  work. 
And  came  and  said,  "  Where  were  you  yesterday  ? 
Whose  cliild  is  that  ?    What  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  gi'ound. 
And  answered  softly,  "  This  is  William's  child ! " 


24  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

"  And  did  I  not,"  said  Allan,  "  did  I  not 

Forbid  you,  Dora  ?  "     Dora  said  «.gain : 

"  Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the  child, 

And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  gone  I  ** 

And  Allan  said,  "  I  see  it  is  a  trick 

Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman  there. 

I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you  1 

You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet  you  dared 

To  slight  it.     Well  —  for  I  will  take  the  boy ; 

But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more." 

So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried  aloud 
And  struggled  hard.    The  wreath  of  flowers  fell 
At  Dora's  feet.     She  bowed  upon  her  hands. 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the  field, 
\        Iilore  and  more  distant     She  bowed  down  hei  head, 
Remembering  the  day  when  first  she  came, 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.     She  bowed  down 
And  wept  in  secret ;  and  the  reapers  reaped, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary's  house,  and  stood 
Upon  the  threshold.     Mary  saw  the  boy 
"Was  not  with  Dora.     She  broke  out  in  praise 
To  God,  that  helped  her  in  her  widowhood. 
And  Dora  said,  "  My  uncle  took  the  boy ; 
But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with  you : 
He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more." 
Then  answered  IVIary,  "  This  shall  never  be, 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on  thyself: 
And,  now  I  think,  he  shall  not  have  the  boy, 
For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to  slight 
His  mother;  therefore  thou  and  I  will  go. 
And  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him  home  ; 
And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back ; 


DORA.  25 

But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again, 
Then  thou  and  I  will  live  within  one  house, 
And  work  for  WUliam's  child,  until  he  grows 
Of  age  to  help  us." 

So  the  women  kissed 
Each  other,  and  set  out  and  reached  the  farm. 
The  door  was  off  the  latch  :  they  peeped  and  saw 
The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire's  knees, 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his  arm, 
And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the  cheeks. 
Like  one  that  loved  him  ;  and  the  lad  stretched  out 
And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal  that  hung 
From  Allan's  watch,  and  sparkled  by  the  fire. 
Then  they  came  in  ;  but  when  the  boy  beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her : 
And  Allan  set  him  down,  and  Mary  said :  — 

"  0  Father !  —  if  you  let  me  call  you  so  — 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself. 
Or  William,  or  this  chUd  ;  but  now  I  come 
For  Dora :  take  her  back ;  she  loves  you  welL 

0  Sir,  when  William  died,  he  died  at  peace 
With  all  men  ;  for  I  asked  him,  and  he  said, 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me.  — 

1  had  been  a  patient  wife :  but.  Sir,  he  said 
That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father  thus : 

'  God  bless  liim ! '  he  said,  *  and  may  he  never  know 
The  troubles  I  have  gone  through  ! '     Then  he  turned 
His  face  and  passed  —  unhappy  that  I  am ! 
But  now.  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for  you 
Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn  to  slight 
His  father's  memory ;  and  take  Dora  back, 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before." 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.    There  was  silence  in  the  room ; 


26  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

Aijd  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in  sobs :  — 

"  I  have  been  to  blame  —  to  blame  !     I  have  killed  my  son  1 

I  have  killed  liim !  —  but  I  loved  him  —  my  dear  son ! 

May  God  forgive  me !  —  I  have  been  to  blame. 

Kiss  me,  my  children  1 " 

Then  they  clung  about 
The  old  man's  neck,  and  kissed  him  many  times. 
And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  remorse, 
And  nil  his  love  came  back  a  himdred-fold; 
And  for  three  hours  he  sobbed  o'er  William's  child, 
Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 
Within  one  house  together ;  and  as  years 
Went  forward,  ISIary  took  another  mate ; 
But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 


Ayc^^/Y^^rY'// 


A  TALE  OF  WITCHCRAFT. 


Bt  sir  WALTER  SCOTT. 


MARGARET  BARCLAY,  wife  of  Archibald  Dein. 
burgess  of  Irvine,  had  been  slandered  by  her  sister 
in-law,  Janet  Lyal,  the  spouse  of  John  Dein,  brother  of 
Archibald,  and  by  John  Dein  himself,  as  guilty  of  some  act 
of  theft.  Upon  this  provocation  Margaret  Barclay  raised  an 
action  of  slander  before  the  church  court,  which  prosecution, 
after  some  procedure,  the  kirk-session  discharged,  by  direct- 
ing a  reconcihation  between  the  parties.  Nevertheless,  al- 
though the  two  women  shook  hands  before  the  court,  yet  the 
said  Margaret  Barclay  declared  that  she  gave  her  hand  only 
in  obedience  to  thejdrk-session,  but  that  she  still  retained 
her  hatred  and  ill-wiU  against  John  Dein  and  liis  wife  Janet 
Lyal.  About  this  tinle  the  bark  of  John  Dein  was  about  to 
sail  for  France,  and  Andrew  Train,  or  Tran,  Provost  of  the 
burgh  of  Irvine,  who  was  an  owner  of  the  vessel,  went  with 
him,  to  superintend  the  commercial  part  of  the  voyage.  Two 
other  merchants  of  some  consequence  went  in  the  same  ves- 
sel, with  a  sufficient  number  of  mariners.  Margaret  Barclay, 
the  revengeful  person  already  mentioned,  was  heard  to  im- 
precate curses  upon  the  provost's  argosy,  praying  to  God 
that  sea  nor  salt-water  might  never  bear  the  ship,  and  that 
partans  (crabs)  might  eat  the  crew  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea 
When,  under  these  auspices,  the  ship  was  absent  on  her 
voyage,  a  vagabond  fellow,  named  John  Stewart,  pretending 


28  SIB  WALTER  SCOTT. 

to  have  knowledge  of  jugglery,  and  to  possess  the  power  of 
a  spaeman,  came  to  the  residence  of  Tran,  the  provost,  and 
dropped  explicit  hints  that  the  ship  was  lost,  and  that  the 
good  woman  of  the  house  was  a  widow.  The  sad  truth  was 
afterward  learned  on  more  certain  information.  Two  of  the 
seamen,  after  a  space  of  doubt  and  anxiety,  arrived  with  the 
melancholy  tidings  that  the  bark  of  which  Jolm  Dein  was 
skipper  and  Provost  Tran  part-owner  had  been  wrecked  on 
the  coast  of  England,  near  Padstow,  when  all  on  board  had 
been  lost,  except  the  two  sailors  who  brought  the  notice. 
Suspicion  of  sorcery,  in  those  days  easily  awakened,  was 
fixed  on  Margaret  Barclay,  who  had  imprecated  curses  on 
the  ship ;  and  on  John  Stewart,  the  juggler,  who  had  seemed 
to  know  of  the  evil  fate  of  the  voyage  before  he  could  have 
become  acquainted  with  it  by  natural  means. 

Stewart,  who  was  first  apprehended,  acknowledged  that 
Margaret  Barclay,  the  other  suspected  person,  had  applied 
to  him  to  teach  her  some  magic  arts,  "  in  order  that  she  might 
get  gear,  kye's  milk,  love  of  man,  her  heart's  desire  on  such 
persons  as  had  done  her  wrong,  and,  finally,  that  she  might 
obtain  the  fruit  of  sea  and  land."  Stewart  declared  that  he 
denied  to  Margaret  that  he  possessed  the  said  arts  himself, 
or  had  the  power  of  communicating  them.  So  far  was  well ; 
but,  true  or  false,  he  added  a  string  of  circumstances,  whether 
voluntarily  declared  or  extracted  by  torture,  which  tended  to 
fix  the  cause  of  the  loss  of  the  bark  on  Margaret  Barclay. 
He  had  come,  he  said,  to  this  woman's  house  in  Irvine, 
shortly  after  the  ship  set  sail  from  harbor.  He  went  to 
Margaret's  house  by  night,  and  found  her  engaged,  with  other 
two  Avomen,  in  making  clay  figures ;  one  of  the  figures  was 
made  handsome,  with  fair  hair,  supposed  to  represent  Pro- 
vost Tran.  They  then  proceeded  to  mould  a  figure  of  a  ship 
in  clay,  and  during  tliis  labor  the  Devil  appeared  to  the 
company  in  the  shape  of  a  handsome  black  lapdog,  such  as 
ladies  use  to  keep.     He  added  that  the  whole  party  left  the 


A  TALE  OF  WITCHCRAFT.  29 

house  together,  and  went  into  an  empty  waste-house  nearer 
the  seaport,  which  house  he  pointed  out  to  the  city  magis- 
trates. From  this  house  they  went  to  the  seaside,  followed 
by  the  black  lapdog  aforesaid,  and  cast  in  the  figures  of  claj 
representing  the  ship  and  the  men ;  after  which  the  sea  raged 
roared,  and  became  red  like  the  juice  of  madder  in  a  dyer** 
caldi'on. 

This  confession  having  been  extorted  from  the  unfortunate 
juggler,  the  female  acquaintances  of  Margaret  Barclay  were 
next  convened,  that  he  might  point  out  her  associates  in  form- 
ing the  chai-m,  when  he  pitched  upon  a  woman  called  Isobel 
Insh,  or  Taylor,  who  resolutely  denied  having  ever  seen  him 
before.  She  was  imprisoned,  however,  in  the  belfry  of  the 
church.  An  addition  to  the  evidence  against  the  poor  old 
woman  Insh  was  then  procured  from  her  own  daughter,  Mar- 
garet Tailzeour,  a  child  of  eight  years  old,  who  lived  as  ser- 
vant with  JMargaret  Barclay,  the  person  principally  accused. 
This  child,  who  was  keeper  of  a  baby  belonging  to  Margaret 
Barclay,  either  from  terror,  or  the  innate  love  of  falsehood 
which  we  have  observed  as  proper  to  childhood,  declared, 
that  she  was  present  when  the  fatal  models  of  clay  were 
formed,  and  that,  in  plunging  them  in  the  sea,  Margaret  Bar- 
clay, her  mistress, -"and  her  mother,  Isobel  Insh,  were  assisted 
by  another  woman,^  and  a  girl  of  fourteen  years  old,  who 
dwelt  at  the  town-head.  Legally  considered,  the  evidence 
of  this  cluld  was  contradictory,  and  inconsistent  with  the  con- 
fession of  the  juggler,  for  it  assigned  other  particulars  and 
dramatis  personce  in  many  respects  different.  But  all  was 
accounted  sufficiently  regular,  especially  since  the  girl  failed 
not  to  swear  to  the  presence  of  the  black  dog,  to  whose  ap- 
pearance she  also  added  the  additional  terrors  of  that  of  a 
black  man.  The  dog  also,  according  to  her  account,  emitted 
flashes  from  its  jaws  and  nostrils,  to  illuminate  the  witches 
during  the  performance  of  the  spell.  The  child  maintained 
this  story  even  to  her  mother's  face>  only  alleging  that  Isobel 


30  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

Insli  remained  behind  in  the  waste-house,  and  was  not  pres* 
ent  when  the  images  were  put  into  the  sea.  For  her  own 
countenance  and  presence  on  the  occasion,  and  to  insure  her 
secrecy,  her  mistress  promised  her  a  pair  of  new  shoes. 

John  Stewart,  being  re-examined,  and  confronted  with  the 
child,  was  easUy  compelled  to  allow  that  the  "  little  smatch- 
et"  was  there,  and  to  give  that  marvellous  account  of  his 
correspondence  with  Elfland,  which  we  have  given  else- 
wliere. 

The  conspiracy  thus  fer,  as  they  conceived,  disclosed,  the 
magistrates  and  ministers  wrought  hard  with  Isobel  Insh,  tc 
prevail  upon  her  to  tell  the  truth ;  and  she  at  length  acknowl- 
edged her  presence  at  the  time  when  the  models  of  the  ship 
and  mariners  were  destroyed,  but  endeavored  so  to  modify 
her  declaration  as  to  deny  aU  personal  accession  to  the  guUt. 
This  poor  creature  almost  admitted  the  supernatural  powers 
imputed  to  her,  promising  Bailie  Dunlop  (also  a  mariner), 
by  whom  she  was  imprisoned,  that  if  he  would  dismiss  her, 
he  should  never  make  a  bad  voyage,  but  have  success  in  all 
his  dealings  by  sea  and  land.  She  was  finally  brought  to 
promise  that  she  would  fully  confess  the  whole  that  she  knew 
of  the  affair  on  the  morrow. 

But  finding  herself  in  so  hard  a  strait,  the  unfortunate 
woman  made  use  of  the  darkness  to  attempt  an  escape. 
With  this  view  she  got  out  by  a  back  window  of  the  beliry, 
although,  says  the  report,  there  were  "  iron  bolts,  locks,  and 
fetters  on  her  " ;  and  attained  the  roof  of  the  church,  where, 
losing  her  footing,  she  sustained  a  severe  fall,  and  was  greatly 
bruised.  Being  apprehended.  Bailie  Dunlop  again  urged 
her  to  confess  ;  but  the  poor  woman  was  determined  to  ap- 
peal to  a  more  merciful  tribunal,  and  maintained  her  inno- 
cence to  the  last  minute  of  her  life,  denying  all  that  she  had 
formerly  admitted,  and  dying  five  days  after  her  fall  from 
the  roof  of  the  church.  The  inhabitants  of  Irvine  attributed 
her  death  to  poison. 


A  TALE  OF  WITCHCRAFT.  31 

The  scene  began  to  thicken,  for  a  commission  was  granted 
for  the  trial  of  the  two  remaining  persons  accused,  namely, 
Stewart  the  juggler  and  Margaret  Barclay.  The  day  of 
trial  being  arrived,  the  following  singular  events  took  place, 
which  we  give  as  stated  in  the  record. 

"  My  Lord  and  Earl  of  Eglintoime  (who  iwella  ivithui 
the  space  of  one  mile  to  the  said  burgh),  having  come 
to  the  said  burgh  at  the  earnest  request  of  the  said  Justices, 
for  giving  to  them  of  his  lordship's  coimtenance,  concur- 
rence, and  assistance,  in  trying  of  the  aforesaid  devilish 
practices,  conform  to  the  tenor  of  the  foresaid  commission, 
the  said  John  Stewart,  for  his  better  preserving  to  the 
day  of  the  assize,  was  put  in  a  sm-e  lockfast  booth,  where 
no  manner  of  person  might  have  access  to  him  till  the 
downsitting  of  the  Justice  Court,  and  for  avoiding  of  putting 
violent  hands  on  himself,  he  was  very  strictly  guarded,  and 
fettered  by  the  arms,  as  use  is.  And  upon  that  same  day 
of  the  assize,  about  half  an  hour  before  the  do-\vnsitting  of 
the  Justice  Court,  Mr.  David  Dickson,  minister  at  Irvine, 
and  Mr.  Greorge  Dunbar,  minister  of  Air,  having  gone  to 
him,  to  exhort  liim  to  call  on  his  God  for  mercy  for  his  by- 
gone ^\'icked  and  evil  life,  and  that  God  would  of  his  infinite 
mercy  loose-  him  out  of  the  bonds  of  the  Devil,  whom  he 
had  served  these  manv  years  bygone,  he  acquiesced  in  their 
prayer  and  godly  exhortation,  and  uttered  these  words  :  '  I 
am  so  straitly  guarded,  that  it  lies  not  in  my  power  to  get  my 
hand  to  take  off  my  bonnet,  nor  to  get  bread  to  my  mouth.' 
And  immediately  after  the  departing  of  the  two  ministers 
from  him,  the  juggler  being  sent  for  at  the  desii-e  of  my  Lord 
of  Eglintoune,  to  be  confronted  with  a  woman  of  the  burgh 
of  Air,  called  Janet  Bous,  who  was  apprehended  by  the 
magistrates  of  the  burgh  of  Air  for  witchcraft,  and  sent  to 
the  burgh  of  L'vine  purposely  for  tliat  affair,  he  was  found 
by  the  burgh  officers  who  went  about  liim,  strangled  and 
hanged  by  the  cruik  of  the  door,  with  a  tait  of  hemp,  or 


82  ilR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

a  string  made  of  hemp,  supposed  to  have  been  his  garter 
or  sti'ing  of  his  bonnet,  not  above  the  length  of  two  span 
long,  his  knees  not  being  from  the  gromid  half  a  span, 
and  was  brought  out  of  the  house,  his  life  not  being  totallj 
expelled.  But,  notwithstanding  of  whatsoever  means  used 
in  the  contrary  for  remeid  of  his  life,  he  revived  not,  but 
80  ended  his  life  miserably,  by  the  help  of  the  Devil  lus 
master. 

"  And  because  there  was  then  only  in  life  the  said  Marga- 
ret Barclay,  and  that  the  persons  summoned  to  pass  upon  her 
assize,  and  upon  the  assize  of  the  juggler,  who,  by  the  help 
of  the  DevU  his  master,  had  put  violent  hands  on  himself, 
were  all  present  within  the  said  burgh ;  therefore,  and  for 
eschewing  of  the  hke  in  the  person  of  the  said  Margaret, 
our  sovereign  lord's  justices  in  that  part,  particularly  above- 
named,  constituted  by  commission,  after  solemn  deliberation 
and  advice  of  the  said  noble  lord,  whose  concurrence  and 
advice  was  chiefly  required  and  taken  in  this  matter,  con- 
cluded with  all  possible  diligence  before  the  downsitting  of 
the  Justice  Court,  to  put  the  said  Margaret  in  torture ;  in 
respect  the  DevU,  by  God's  permission,  had  made  her  asso- 
ciates, who  were  the  lights  of  the  cause,  to  be  their  own 
hurrioes  (slayers).  They  used  the  torture  underwritten,  as 
being  most  safe  and  gentle  (as  the  said  noble  lord  assured 
the  said  justices),  by  putting  of  her  two  bare  legs  in  a  pair 
of  stocks,  and  thereafter  by  onlaying  of  certain  iron  gauds 
(bars),  severally,  one  by  one,  and  then  eiking  and  augment- 
ing the  weight  by  laying  on  more  gauds,  and  in  easing  of 
her  by  oflftaking  of  the  iron  gauds  one  or  more,  as  occasion 
offered,  which  iron  gauds  were  but  httle  short  gauds,  and 
broke  not  the  skin  of  her  legs,  &c. 

"  After  using  of  the  which  kind  of  gentle  torture,  the  said 
Margaret  began,  according  to  the  increase  of  the  pain,  to 
cry,  and  crave  for  God's  cause  to  take  off  her  shins  the  fore- 
said irons,  and  she  should  declare  truly  the  whole  matter 


A  TALE  OF  WITCHCEAFT.  33 

Wliich  beiug  removed,  she  began  at  her  former  denial :  and 
being  of  new  assayed  in  torture  as  of  befoir,  she  then  uttered 
these  words:  'Take  off,  take  off,  and  before  God  I  shall 
Bhow  you  the  whole  form  ! ' 

"And  the  said  irons  being  of  new,  upon  her  faithfull 
promise,  removed,  she  then  desired  my  Lord  of  Eglintoune, 
the  said  foiu"  justices,  and  the  said  Mr.  David  Dickson,  min- 
ister of  the  burgh,  IMr.  George  Dunbar,  minister  of  Ayr, 
and  ]Mr.  Mitchell  Wallace,  minister  of  Kihnamock,  and  Mr. 
John  Cunninghame,  minister  of  Dairy,  and  Hugh  Kennedy, 
provost  of  Ayr,  to  come  by  themselves,  and  to  remove  aU 
others,  and  she  should  declare  truly,  as  she  should  answer  to 
God,  the  whole  matter.  Whose  desire  in  that  being  fulfilled, 
she  made  her  confession  in  this  manner,  but  (i.  e.  without) 
any  kind  of  demand,  freely,  without  interrogation ;  God's 
name  by  earnest  prayer  being  called  upon  for  opening  of 
her  lips,  and  easing  of  her  heart,  that  she,  by  rendering  of 
the  truth,  might  glorify  and  magnify  his  holy  name,  and  dis- 
appoint the  enemy  of  her  salvation."  —  Trial  of  Margaret 
Barclay,  Sfc,  1618. 

Margaret  Barclay,  who  was  a  young  and  lively  person, 
had  hitherto  conducted  herself  like  a  passionate  and  high- 
tempered  woman  Innocently  accused,  and  the  only  appear- 
ance of  conviction  oJ>tained  against  her  was,  that  she  carried 
about  her  rowan-tree  and  colored  thread,  to  make,  as  she 
said,  her  cow  give  milk,  when  it  began  to  fail.  But  the 
gentle  torture  —  a  strange  junction  of  words  —  recommended 
as  an  anodyne  by  the  good  Lord  Eglinton,  —  the  placing, 
namely,  her  legs  in  the  stocks,  and  loading  her  bare  shins 
with  bars  of  iron,  overcame  her  resolution :  when,  at  her 
screams  and  declarations  that  she  was  willing  to  tell  all,  the 
weights  were  removed.  She  then  told  a  story  of  destroying 
the  ship  of  Jolm  Dein,  afiSi*ming  that  it  was  with  the  pur- 
pose of  killing  only  her  brother-in-law  and  Provost  Tran, 
and  saving  tJie  rest  of  the  crew.     She  at  the  same  time  iji- 

3 


34  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

volved  in  the  guilt  Isobel  Crawford.  This  poor  woman  was 
also  apprehended,  and,  in  great  terror,  confessed  the  imputed 
crime,  retorting  the  principal  blame  on  Margaret  Barclay 
herself.  The  trial  was  then  appointed  to  proceed,  when 
Alexander  Dean,  the  husband  of  Margaret  Barclay,  ap- 
peared in  court  with  a  lawyer  to  act  in  liis  wife's  behalf. 
Apparently,  the  sight  of  her  husband  awakened  some  hope 
and  desire  of  life,  for  when  the  prisoner  was  asked  by  the 
lawyer  whether  she  wished  to  be  defended,  she  answered, 
'•  As  you  please.  But  all  I  have  confessed  was  in  agony  of 
torture ;  and,  before  God,  all  I  have  spoken  is  false  and 
unti-ue."  To  which  she  pathetically  added,  "  Ye  have  been 
too  long  in  coming." 

The  jury,  unmoved  by  these  affecting  circumstances,  pro- 
ceeded upon  the  principle  that  the  confession  of  the  accused 
could  not  be  considered  as  made  under  the  influence  of  tor- 
ture, since  the  bars  were  not  actually  upon  her  limbs  at  the 
time  it  was  delivered,  although  they  were  placed  at  her 
elbow,  ready  to  be  again  laid  on  her  bare  sliins,  if  she  was 
less  explicit  in  her  declaration  than  her  auditors  wished. 
On  this  nice  distinction,  they  in  one  voice  found  Margaret 
Barclay  guilty.  It  is  singular  that  she  should  have  ag:iin 
returned  to  her  confession  after  sentence,  and  died  affirming 
it ;  —  the  ex])lanation  of  which,  however,  might  be,  either 
that  she  had  really  in  her  ignorance  and  folly  tampered 
with  some  idle  spells,  or  that  an  apparent  penitence  for  her 
offence,  however  imaginary,  was  the  only  mode  in  which  she 
could  obtain  any  share  of  public  sympatliy  at  her  death,  or 
a  portion  of  the  prayers  of  the  clergy  and  congregation, 
wliich,  in  her  circumstances,  she  might  be  willing  to  pur- 
chase, even  by  confession  of  what  all  believed  respecting 
lier.  It  is  remarkable,  that  she  earnestly  entreated  the 
magistrates  that  no  harm  should  be  done  to  Isobel  Ci*aw- 
ford,  the  woman  whom  she  had  hereelf  accused.  This  un- 
fortunate young  creature  was  strangled  at  the  stake,  and  her 


A  TALE  OF  WITCHCRAFT.  35 

body  burned  to  ashes,  having  died  with  many  expressions  of 
religion  and  penitence. 

It  was  one  fatal  consequence  of  these  cruel  persecutions, 
that  one  pile  was  usually  lighted  at  the  embers  of  another. 
Accordingly,  in  the  present  case,  three  victims  having  al- 
ready perished  by  this  accusation,  the  magistrates,  incensed 
at  the  nature  of  the  crime,  so  perilous  as  it  seemed  to  men 
of  a  maritime  life,  and  at  a  loss  of  several  friends  of  their 
own,  one  of  whom  had  been  their  principal  magistrate,  did 
not  forbear  to  insist  against  Isobel  Crawford,  inculpated  by 
Margaret  Barclay's  confession.  A  new  commission  was 
granted  for  her  trial,  and  after  the  assistant  minister  of  Ir- 
vine, Mr.  David  Dickson,  had  made  earnest  prayers  to  God 
for  opening  her  obdurate  and  closed  heart,  she  was  subjected 
to  the  torture  of  iron  bars  laid  upon  her  bare  shins,  her  feet 
being  in  the  stocks,  as  in  the  case  of  Margaret  Barclay. 

She  endured  this  torture  with  incredible  firmness,  since 
she  did  "  admirably,  without  any  kind  of  din  or  exclamation, 
suffer  above  thirty  stone  of  iron  to  be  laid  on  her  legs,  never 
shrinking  thereat .  in  any  sort,  but  remaining,  as  it  were, 
steady."  But  in  sliifting  the  situation  of  the  iron  bars,  and 
removing  them  to  another  part  of  her  shins,  her  constancy 
gave  way;  she  broke  out  into  horrible  cries  (though  nol 
more  than  three  bars  were  then  actually  on  her  person) 
of  "Tak  aff!  tak  aff!"  On  being  relieved  from  the  tor- 
ture, she  made  the  usual  confession  of  all  that  she  waa 
charged  with,  and  of  a  connection  with  the  Devil  which  had 
subsisted  for  several  years.  Sentence  was  given  against  her 
accordingly.  After  tliis  had  been  denounced,  she  openly 
denied  all  her  former  confessions,  and  died  without  any 
sign  of  repentance,  offering  repeated  interruptions  to  the 
minister  in  his  prayer,  and  absolutely  refusing  to  pardon  the 
executioner. 

This  tragedy  happened  in  the  year  1613,  and  recorded  as 
it  is  very  particularly,  and  at  considerable  length,  forms  the 


36  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

most  detailed  specimen  I  have  met  with,  of  a  Scottish  trial 
for  -witchcraft,  —  illustrating,  in  particular,  how  poor  wretches 
abandoned,  as  they  conceived,  by  God  and  the  world,  de- 
prived of  all  human  sympathy,  and  exposed  to  personal  tor- 
tures of  an  acute  description,  became  disposed  to  throw  away 
the  lives  that  were  rendered  bitter  to  them,  by  a  voluntary 
confession  of  guilt,  rather  than  struggle  hopelessly  against 
so  many  evils.  Four  persons  here  lost  their  lives,  merely 
because  the  throwing  some  clay  models  into  the  sea,  a  fact 
told  differently  by  the  <ntnesses  who  spoke  of  it,  corresponded 
with  the  season,  for  no  day  was  fixed,  in  which  a  particular 
vessel  was  lost.  It  is  scarce  possible  that,  after  reading  such 
a  story,  a  man  of  sense  can  listen  for  an  instant  to  the  evi- 
dence founded  on  confessions  thus  obtained,  which  has  been 
almost  the  sole  reason  by  which  a  few  individuals,  even  in 
modem  times,  have  endeavored  to  justify  a  belief  in  the 
existence  of  witchcraft 

The  result  of  the  judicial  examination  of  a  criminal,  when 
extorted  by  such  means,  is  the  most  suspicious  of  all  evidence, 
and  even  when  voluntarily  given,  is  scarce  admissible,  with- 
out the  corroboration  of  other  testimony. 


ONE   WORD   MORE. 


TO  E.  B.  B. 


By  ROBERT  BROWNING. 


THERE  they  are,  my  fifty  men  and  women 
Naming  me  the  fifty  poems  finished ! 
Take  them,  Love,  the  book  *  and  me  together. 
Where  the  heart  lies,  let  the  brain  lie  also. 

n. 

Rafael  made  a  century  of  sonnets. 

Made  and  wrote  them  in  a  certain  volume 

Dinted  with  the  silver-pointed  pencil 

Else  he  only  used  to  draw  Madonnas  : 

These,  the  world  might  view,  —  but  One,  the  volume. 

Who  that  one,  you  ask  ?    Your  heart  instructs  you. 

Did  she  live  and  love  it  all  her  lifetime  ? 

Did  she  drop,  his  lady  of  the  sonnets. 

Die,  and  let  it  drop  beside  her  pillow 

Where  it  lay  in  place  of  Rafael's  glory, 

Rafael's  cheek  so  duteous  and  so  loving,  — 

Cheek,  the  world  was  wont  to  hail  a  painter's, 

Rafael's  cheek,  her  love  had  turned  a  poet's  ? 

•  Referring  to  his  volume  of  Poems  entitled  "  Men  and  Women." 


88  ROBERT  BROWNING. 

m. 

You  and  I  would  rather  read  that  volume, 
(Taken  to  his  beating  bosom  by  it,) 
Lean  and  list  the  bosom-beats  of  I^afael, 
Would  we  not  ?  than  wonder  at  Madonnas  — 
Her,  San  Sisto  names,  and  Her,  Foligno, 
Her,  that  visits  Florence  in  a  vision. 
Her,  that 's  left  with  lilies  in  the  Louvre  — 
Seen  by, us  and  all  the  world  in  circle. 

IV. 

You  and  I  will  never  read  that  volume. 

Guido  Reni,  like  his  own  eye's  apple 

Guarded  long  the  treasure-book  and  loved  it. 

Guido  Reni  dying,  all  Bologna 

Cried,  and  the  world  with  it,  "  Ours  —  the  treasure  1 ' 

Suddenly,  as  rare  things  wiU,  it  vanished. 

V. 

Dante  once  prepared  to  paint  an  angel : 
Whom  to  please  ?    You  whisper,  "  Beatrice." 
While  he  mused  and  traced  it  and  retraced  it, 
(Peradventure  with  a  pen  corroded 
Still  by  drops  of  that  hot  ink  he  dipped  for, 
When,  his  left-hand  i'  the  hair  o'  the  wicked, 
Back  he  held  the  brow  and  pricked  its  stigma. 
Bit  into  the  live  man's  flesh  for  parchment. 
Loosed  him,  laughed  to  see  the  writing  rankle, 
J<et  the  wretch  go  festering  through  Florence,)  — 
Dante,  who  loved  well  because  he  hated, 
Hated  wickedness  that  hinders  loving, 
Dante  standing,  studying  his  angel,  — 
In  there  broke  the  folk  of  liis  Inferno. 
Says  he,  "  Certain  people  of  importance  " 


ONE  WORD  MORE.  39 

(Such  lie  gave  his  daily,  dreadful  line  to) 
Entered  and  would  seize,  forsooth,  the  poet. 
Says  the  poet,  "  Then  I  stopped  my  painting." 

VI. 

You  and  I  would  rather  see  that  angel, 
Painted  by  the  tenderness  of  Dante, 
Would  we  not  ?  —  than  read  a  fresh  Inferno. 

VII. 

You  and  I  will  never  see  that  picture. 
Wliile  he  mused  on  love  and  Beatrice, 
While  he  softened  o'er  his  outlined  angel, 
In  they  broke,  those  "  people  of  importance  " : 
We  and  Bice  bear  the  loss  forever. 

vni. 
What  of  Eafael's  sonnets,  Dante's  picture  ? 

rx. 

This  :  no  artist  Ijives  and  loves  that  longs  not 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  One  only, 

(Ah,  the  prize  !)  to  find  his  love  a  language 

Fit  and  fair  and  simple  and  sufficient  — 

Using  nature  that 's  an  art  to  others. 

Not,  this  one  time,  art  that 's  turned  his  nature. 

Ay,  of  all  the  artists  living,  loving, 

None  but  would  forego  his  proper  dowry,  — 

Does  he  paint  ?  he  fain  would  write  a  poem,  — 

Does  he  write  ?  he  fain  would  paint  a  picture. 

Put  to  proof  art  alien  to  the  artist's. 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  One  only, 

So  to  be  the  man  and  leave  the  artist. 

Save  the  man's  joy,  miss  the  artist's  sorrow. 


40  ROBERT  BROWNING. 


X. 


Wherefore  ?    Heaven's  gift  takes  earth's  abatement  I 

He  who  smites  the  rock  and  spreads  the  water, 

Bidding  drink  and  live  a  crowd  beneath  him. 

Even  he,  the  minute  makes  immortal, 

Proves,  perchance,  his  mortal  in  the  minute, 

Desecrates,  belike,  the  deed  in  doing. 

While  he  smites,  how  can  he  but  remember. 

So  he  smot6  before,  in  such  a  peril. 

When  they  stood  and  mocked,  "  Shall  smiting  help  us  ? " 

When  they  drank  and  sneered,  "  A  stroke  is  easy ! " 

When  they  wiped  their  mouths  and  went  their  journey. 

Throwing  him  for  thanks,  "  But  drought  was  pleasant." 

Thus  old  memories  mar  the  actual  triumph ; 

Thus  the  doing  savors  of  disrelish ; 

Thus  achievement  lacks  a  gracious  somewhat ; 

O'er-importuned  brows  becloud  the  mandate, 

Carelessness  or  consciousness,  the  gesture. 

For  he  bears  an  ancient  wrong  about  him. 

Sees  and  knows  again  those  phalanxed  faces. 

Hears,  yet  one  time  more,  the  'customed  prelude,  — 

"  How  should'st  thou,  of  aU  men,  smite,  and  save  us  ?  " 

Guesses  what  is  like  to  prove  the  sequel,  — 

"  Egypt's  flesh-pots,  —  nay,  the  drought  was  better.** 

XI. 

O,  the  crowd  must  have  emphatic  warrant ! 
Theirs,  the  Sinai-forehead's  cloven  brilliance. 
Right-arm's  rod-sweep,  tongue's  imperial  fiat. 
Never  dares  the  man  put  off  the  prophet. 

XII. 

Did  he  love  one  face  from  out  the  thousands, 
(Were  she  Jethro's  daughter,  white  and  wifely, 


ONE  WORD  MORE.  4J 

Were  she  but  the  -Ethiopian  bondslave,) 
He  would  envy  yon  dumb,  patient  camel, 
Keeping  a  reserve  of  scanty  water 
Meant  to  save  his  own  life  in  the  desert ; 
Ready  in  the  desert  to  deliver 
(Kneelir  g  down  to  let  his  breast  be  opened) 
Hoard  and  life  together  for  his  mistress. 

xin. 

I  shall  never,  in  the  years  remaining, 
Paint  you  pictures,  no,  nor  carve  you  statues, 
Make  you  music  that  should  all-express  me ; 
So  it  seems  :  I  stand  on  my  attainment. 
This  of  verse  alone,  one  life  allows  me ; 
Verse  and  nothing  else  have  I  to  give  you. 
Other  heights  in  other  lives,  God  willing,  — 
All  the  gifts  from  all  the  heights,  your  own,  Love  I 

xrv. 

Yet  a  semblance  of  resource  avails  us,— 

Shade  so  finely  touched,  love's  sense  must  seize  it. 

Take  these  Ijnes,  look  lovingly  and  nearly, 

Lines  I  write  the  first  time  and  the  last  time. 

He  who  works  in  fresco,  steals  a  hair-brush. 

Curbs  the  liberal  hand,  subservient  proudly, 

Cramps  his  spirit,  crowds  its  all  in  little. 

Makes  a  strange  art  of  an  art  familiar, 

Fills  his  lady's  raissal-marge  with  flowerets. 

He  who  blows  through  bronze,  may  breathe  through  silver, 

Fitly  serenade  a  slumbrous  princess. 

He  who  writes,  may  \vrite  for  once,  as  I  do« 

XV. 

Love,  you  saw  me  gather  men  and  women. 
Live  or  dead  or  fashioned  by  my  fancy. 


42  BOBERT  BROWNING. 

Enter  each  and  all,  and  use  their  service, 

Speak  from  every  mouth,  —  the  speech,  a  poem. 

Hardly  shall  I  tell  my  joys  and  sorrows, 

Hopes  and  fears,  belief  and  disbelieving : 

I  am  mine  and  yours,  —  the  rest  be  all  men's, 

Karshook,  Cleon,  Norbert  and  the  fifty. 

Let  me  speak  this  once  in  my  true  person, 

Not  as  Lippo,  Koland,  or  Andrea, 

Though  the  fruit  of  speech  be  just  this  sentence,  — 

Pray  you,  look  on  these  my  men  and  women, 

Take  and  keep  my  fifty  poems  finished ; 

Where  my  heart  lies,  let  my  brain  lie  also  I 

Poor  the  speech ;  be  how  I  speak,  for  all  things. 

XVI. 

Not  but  that  you  know  me !    Lo,  the  moon's  self  I 
Here  in  London,  yonder  late  in  Florence, 
StiU  we  find  her  face,  the  thrice-transfigured. 
Curving  on  a  sky  imbrued  with  color, 
Drifted  over  Fiesole  by  twilight, 
Came  she,  our  new  crescent  of  a  hair's-breadth. 
Full  she  flared  it,  lamping  Samminiato, 
Rounder  'twixt  the  cypresses  and  rounder, 
Perfect  till  the  nightingales  applauded. 
Now,  a  piece  of  her  old  self,  impoverished. 
Hard  to  greet,  she  traverses  the  house-roofs, 
Hurries  with  unhandsome  thrift  of  silver, 
Goes  dispiritedly,  —  glad  to  finish. 

xvn. 

Wliat,  there 's  nothing  in  the  moon  noteworthy  ? 
Nay,  —  for  if  that  moon  could  love  a  mortal. 
Use,  to  charm  him,  (so  to  fit  a  fancy,) 
All  her  magic,  ('t  is  the  old  sweet  mythos,) 
She  would  turn  a  new  side  to  her  mortal. 


ONE  WORD  MORE.  43 

Side  unseen  of  herdsman,  huntsman,  steersman,  — 

Blank  to  Zoroaster  on  his  terrace, 

Blind  to  Galileo  on  his  turret, 

Dumb  to  Homer,  dimib  to  Keats,  —  him,  even ! 

Think,  the  wonder  of  the  moonstruck  mortal,  — 

When  she  turns  round,  comes  again  in  heaven. 

Opens  out  anew  for  worse  or  better  ? 

Proves  she  like  some  portent  of  an  iceberg 

Swimming  full  upon  the  ship  it  founders. 

Hungry  with  huge  teeth  of  splintered  crystals  ? 

Proves  she  as  the  paved-work  of  a  sapphire 

Seen  by  Moses  when  he  climbed  the  mountain  ? 

Moses,  Aaron,  Nadab,  and  Abihu 

Climbed  and  saw  the  very  God,  the  Highest, 

Stand  upon  the  paved-work  of  a  sapphil-e. 

Like  the  bodied  heaven  in  his  clearness 

Shone  the  stone,  the  sapphire  of  that  paved-work, 

When  they  ate  and  drank  and  saw  God  also  1 

xvrn. 

What  were  seen  ?    None  knows,  none  ever  shall  know. 

Only  this  is  sure,  -:.-  the  sight  were  other. 

Not  the  moon's  same  side,  born  late  in  Florence, 

Dying  now  impoverished  here  in  London. 

God  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  his  creatures 

Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world  with, 

One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her. 

XIX. 

Tliis  I  say  of  me,  but  think  of  you.  Love  I 

Tliis  to  you,  —  yourself  my  moon  of  poets ! 

Ah,  but  that's  the  world's  side,  —  there's  the  wonder— 

Thus  they  see  you,  praise  you,  think  they  know  you. 

There,  in  turn  I  stand  with  them  and  praise  you. 


44  ROBERT  BROWNING. 

Out  of  my  own  self,  I  dare  to  phrase  it. 
But  the  best  is  when  I  glide  from  out  them, 
Cross  a  step  or  two  of  dubious  twilight, 
Come  out  on  the  other  side,  the  novel 
Silent  silver  lights,  and  darks  undreamed  of, 
Where  I  hush  and  bless  myself  with  silence. 

XX. 

O,  their  Rafael  of  the  dear  Madonnas, 
O,  their  Dante  of  the  dread  Inferno, 
"Wrote  one  song —  and  in  my  brain  I  sing  it, 
Drew  one  angel  —  borne,  see,  on  my  bosom  I 


IN   A   SKYE   BOTHY. 


Bt  ALEXANDER  SMITH. 


MAN  is  an  ease-loving  animal,  with  a  lingering  affec- 
tion for  Arcadian  dales  ;  under  the  shadow  of  whose 
trees  shepherd  boys  are  piping  "  as  they  would  never  grow 
old."  Human  nature  is  a  vagabond  still,  maugre  the  six 
thousand  years  of  it,  and  amuses  itself  with  dreams  of  soci- 
eties free  and  unrestrained.  It  is  this  vagabond  feeling 
in  the  blood  which  draws  one  so  strongly  to  Shakespeare. 
That  sweet  and  liberal  nature  of  his  blossomed  into  all 
wild  human  generosities.  "As  You  Like  It"  is  a  vaga- 
bond play ;  and,  verily,  if  there  waved  in  any  wind  that 
blows  upon  the  earth  a  forest,  peopled  as  Arden's  was  in 
Shakespeare's  imagind!tion,  with  an  exiled  king  drawing 
the  sweetest,  humanest, lessons  from  misfortune,  a  melan- 
choly Jaques  stretched  by  the  river's  brink,  moralizing  on 
the  bleeding  deer,  a  fair  Rosalind  chanting  her  saucy 
cuckoo  song,  fools  like  Touchstone  (not  like  those  of  our 
acquaintance,  reader),  and  the  whole  place  from  centi'e  to 
circumference  filled  with  mighty  oak-bolls,  all  carven  with 
lovers'  names  ;  I  would,  be  my  worldly  prospects  what  they 
may,  pack  up  at  once  and  join  that  vagabond  company.  For 
there  I  should  find  more  gallant  courtesies,  finer  sentiments, 
completer  innocence  and  happiness,  than  I  am  like  to  dis- 
cover here,  although  I  search  for  them  from  shepherd's  cot 
to  king's  palace.    Just  to  think  how  these  people  lived 


46  ALEXANDER  SMITH. 

Carelessly  as  the  blossoming  trees,  happily  as  the  sin^ng 
birds ;  time  measured  only  by  the  acorn's  patter  on  the 
fruitful  soU.  A  world  without  debtor  or  creditor ;  passing 
rich,  yet  with  never  a  doit  in  its  purse ;  with  no  sordid 
cares,  no  regard  for  appearances ;  nothing  to  occupy  the 
young  but  love-making;  nothing  to  occupy  the  old  but 
listening  to  the  "sermons  in  stones,"  and  perusing  the 
musical  wisdom  which  dwells  in  "running  brooks."  Ar- 
den  forest,  alas !  is  not  rooted  in  the  earth :  it  draws 
sustenance  from  a  poet's  brain ;  and  the  light  asleep  on 
its  leafy  billows  is  that  "  that  yet  never  was  seen  on  sea  or 
shore."  But  one  cannot  help  dreaming  of  such  a  place,  and 
striving  to  approach  as  nearly  as  possible  to  its  sweet 
conditions. 

I  am  quite  alone  here :  England  may  have  been  invaded 
and  London  sacked  for  aught  I  know.  Several  weeks 
since,  a  newspaper,  accidentally  blown  to  my  solitude,  in- 
formed me  that  the  Great  Eastern  had  been  got  imder 
weigh,  and  was  then  swinging  at  the  Nore.  There  is  great 
joy,  I  perceive.  Human  nature  stands  astonished  at  itself; 
felicitates  itself  on  its  remarkable  talent,  and  wUl  for 
months  to  come  purr  complacently  over  its  achievement  in 
magazines  and  reviews.  A  fine  world,  messieurs,  that  will 
attain  to  heaven  —  if  in  the  power  of  steam.  A  very  fine 
world ;  yet  for  all  that,  I  have  withdrawn  from  it  for  a 
time,  and  would  rather  not  hear  of  its  remarkable  exploits. 
In  my  present  mood  I  do  not  value  them  that  coil  of  vapor 
on  the  brow  of  Blavin,  which,  as  I  gaze,  smoulders  into 
nothing  in  the  fire  of  sunrise. 

Groethe,  in  his  memorable  book,  ^  Truth  and  Poetry," 
informs  his  readers  that  in  his  youtU  he  loved  to  shelter 
himself  in  the  Scripture  narratives,  from  the  marching  and 
counter-marching  of  armies,  the  cannonading,  retreating, 
and  fighting,  that  lay  everywhere  around  him.  He  shut 
his  eyes,  aa  it  were,  and  a  whole  war-convulsed  Europe 


IN  A  SKYE  BOTHY.  47 

wheeled  away  into  silence  and  distance,  and  in  its  place, 
lo !  the  patriarchs,  with  their  tawny  tents,  their  man-ser- 
vants and  maid-servants,  and  countless  flocks  in  impercep- 
tible procession  wliitening  the  Syrian  plains.  In  this  my 
green  solitude,  I  appreciate  the  Ml  sweetness  of  the  pas- 
sage. Everything  here  is  silent  as  the  Bible  plains  them- 
selves. I  am  cut  off  from  former  scenes  and  associates  as 
by  the  suUen  Styx  and  the  grim  ferrying  of  Charon's  boat. 
The  noise  of  the  world  does  not  touch  me.  I  live  too  far 
inland  to  hear  the  thunder  of  the  reef.  To  this  place  no 
postman  comes,  no  tax-gatherer.  This  region  never  heard 
the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell.  The  land  is  pagan  as 
when  the  yeUow-haired  Norseman  landed  a  thousand  years 
ago.  I  almost  feel  a  pagan  myself.  Not  using  a  notched 
stick,  I  have  lost  all  count  of  time,  and  don't  know  Satur- 
day from  Sunday.  Civihzation  is  like  a  soldier's  stock;  it 
makes  you  carry  your  head  a  good  deal  higher,  makes  the 
angels  weep  a  little  more  at  your  fantastic  tricks,  and  half 
suffocates  you  the  while.  I  have  thrown  it  away,  and 
breathe  freely.  My  bed  is  the  heather,  my  mirror  the 
stream  from  the  hills,  my  comb  and  brush  the  sea-breeze, 
my  watch  the  sun,  my  theatre  the  sunset,  and  my  evening  ser- 
vice —  not  without  a  rude  natural  religion  in  it  —  watching 
the  pinnacles  of  the  hill^of  Cuchullin  sharpening  in  intense 
purple  against  the  palhd  orange  of  the  sky,  or  listening  to 
the  melancholy  voices  of  the  sea-birds  and  the  tide ;  that 
over,  I  am  asleep  till  touched  by  the  earliest  splendor  of 
the  dawn.  I  am,  not  without  reason,  hugely  enamored  of 
my  vagabond  existence. 

INly  bothy  is  situated  on  the  shores  of  one  of  the  lochs 
that  intersect  Skye.  The  coast  is  bare  and  rocky,  hollowed 
into  fantastic  chambers :  and  when  the  tide  is  making,  every 
cavern  murmurs  like  a  sea-shell.  The  land,  from  frequent 
rain  green  as  emerald,  rises  into  soft  pastoral  heights,  and 
about  a  mile  inland  soars  suddenly  up  into  peaks  of  baa- 


48  ALliXANDER  SMITH. 

tard  marble,  white  as  the  cloud  under  which  the  lark  sings 
at  noon,  bathed  in  rosy  light  at  sunset.  In  front  are  the 
Cuchullin  hills  and  the  monstrous  peak  of  Blavin ;  then 
the  green  Strath  runs  narrowing  out  to  sea,  and  the  Island 
of  Rura,  with  a  white  cloud  upon  it,  stretches  like  a  gigan- 
tic shadow  across  the  entrance  of  the  loch,  and  completes 
the  scene.  Twice  every  twenty-four  hours  the  Atlantic  tide 
sets  in  upon  hollowed  shores ;  twice  is  the  sea  withdrawn, 
leaving  spaces  of  green  sand  on  which  mermaids  with 
golden  combs  might  sleek  alluring  tresses  ;  and  black  rocks, 
heaped  with  brown  dulse  and  tangle,  and  lovely  ocean 
blooms  of  purple  and  orange;  and  bare  islets,  —  mai'ked 
at  full  of  tide  by  a  glimmer  of  pale-green  amid  the  univer- 
sal sparkle,  —  where  most  the  sea-fowl  love  to  congregate. 
To  these  islets,  on  favorable  evenings,  come  the  crows,  and 
sit  in  sable  parliament ;  business  despatched,  they  start  into 
air  as  at  a  gun,  and  stream  away  through  the  sunset  to 
their  roosting-place  in  the  Armadale  woods.  The  shore 
supplies  for  me  the  place  of  books  and  companions.  Of 
course  Blavin  and  Cuchullin  hills  are  the  chief  attractions, 
and  I  never  weary  watching  them.  In  the  morning  they 
wear  a  great  white  caftan  of  mist ;  but  that  lifts  away  before 
noon,  and  they  stand  with  all  their  scars  and  passionate 
torrent-lines  bare  to  the  blue  heavens ;  with  perhaps  a  soli- 
tary shoulder  for  a  moment  gleaming  wet  to  the  sunlight. 
After  a  while  a  vapor  begins  to  steam  up  from  their  abysses, 
gathering  itself  into  strange  shapes,  knotting  and  twisting 
itself  like  smoke ;  while  above,  the  ten-ible  crests  are  now 
lost,  now  revealed,  in  a  stream  of  flying  rack.  In  an  hour 
a  wall  of  rain,  gray  as  gi-anite,  opaque  as  iron,  stands  up 
from  the  sea  to  heaven.  The  loch  is  roughening  before 
the  wind,  and  the  islets,  black  dots  a  second  ago,  are 
patches  of  roaring  foam.  You  hear  the  fierce  sound  of 
its  coming.  The  lashing  tempest  sweeps  over  you,  and 
looking  behind,  up  the  long  inland  glen,  you  can  see  on 


IN  A  SKYE  BOTHY.  49 

the  birch  woods,  and  on  the  sides  of  the  hills,  driven  on  the 
wind,  the  white  smoke  of  the  rain.  Though  fierce  as  a 
charge  of  Highland  bayonets,  these  squalls  are  seldom  of 
long  duration,  and  you  bless  them  when  you  creep  from 
your  shelter,  for  out  comes  the  sun,  and  the  birch  woods 
are  twinkling,  and  more  intensely  flash  the  levels  of  the 
sea,  and  at  a  stroke  the  clouds  are  scattered  from  the  wet 
brow  of  Blavin,  and  to  the  whole  a  new  element  is  added, 
the  voice  of  the  swollen  stream  as  it  rushes  over  a  hun- 
dred tiny  cataracts,  and  roars  river-broad  into  the  sea,  mak- 
ing turbid  the  aziu"e.  Then  I  have  my  amusements  in 
this  solitary  place.  The  mountains  ai'e  of  course  open,  and 
this  morning  at  dawn  a  roe  swept  past  me  like  the  wind, 
nose  to  the  dewy  ground,  "  tracking,"  they  call  it  here. 
Above  all,  I  can  wander  on  the  ebbed  beach.  Hogg 
speaks  of  that 

"  Undefined  and  mingled  hum. 
Voice  of  the  desert,  never  dumb." 

But  far  more  than  the  murmuring  and  insecty  air  of  the 
moorland,  does  the  wet  chirh-chirhing  of  the  UAdng  shore 
give  one  the  idea  of  crowded  and  multitudinous  life.  Did 
the  reader  ever  hunt  razor-fish?  —  not  sport  like  tiger- 
hunting,  I  admit ;  yet  it  has  its  pleasures  and  excitements, 
and  can  kill  a  forenoon  for  an  idle  man  agreeably.  On  the 
wet  sands  yonder  the  razor-fish  are  spouting  like  the  foun- 
tains at  Versailles  on  a  fete  day.  The  sly  fellow  sinks  on 
discliarging  his  watery  feu  de  j'oie.  J£  you  are  quickly 
after  him  through  the  sand,  you  catch  him,  and  then  comes 
the  tug  of  war.  Address  and  dexterity  are  required.  If 
you  pull  vigorously,  he  slips  out  of  his  sheath  a  "  mother- 
naked  "  moUusk,  and  escapes.  If  you  do  your  spiriting 
gently,  you  drag  him  up  to  light,  a  long,  thin  case,  with  a 
white  fishy  bulb  protruding  at  one  end  like  a  root.  Rinse 
him  in  sea-water,  toss  him  into  your  basket,  and  plunge 

4 


50  ALEXANDER  SMITH. 

after  another  watery  flash.  These  razor-fish  are  excellent 
eatmg,  the  people  say ;  and  when  used  as  bait,  no  fish  that 
swims  the  ocean  stream,  cod.  wliiting,  haddock,  flat  skate 
broad-shouldered,  crimson  bream,  —  not  the  detested  dog- 
fish himself,  this  summer  swarming  in  every  loch  and  be- 
cursed  by  every  fisherman,  —  can  keep  liimself  off  the 
hook,  and  in  an  hour  your  boat  is  laden  with  ghttering 
spoil.  Then  if  you  take  your  gun  to  the  low  islands, — 
and  you  can  go  dry-shod  at  ebb  of  tide,  —  you  have  your 
chance  of  sea-fowl.  Gulls  of  all  kinds  are  there,  dookers 
and  divers  of  every  description ;  flocks  of  shy  curlews, 
and  specimens  of  a  hundred  tribes,  to  which  my  limited 
ornithological  knowledge  cannot  furnish  a  name.  The 
Solan  goose  yonder  falls  from  heaven  into  the  water  like 
a  meteor-stone.  See  the  sohtary  scart,  with  long,  narrow 
wing  and  outstretched  neck,  shooting  toward  some  distant 
promontory !  Anon,  high  overhead,  come  wheehng  a 
covey  of  lovely  sea-swaUows.  You  fire  ;  one  flutters  down 
never  more  to  skim  the  horizon  or  to  dip  in  the  sea 
sparkle.  Lift  it  up ;  is  it  not  beautiful  ?  The  wild  keen 
eye  is  closed,  but  you  see  the  delicate  slate-color  of  the 
wings,  and  the  long  tail-feathers  white  as  the  creaming 
foam.  There  is  a  stain  of  blood  on  the  breast,  hardly 
brigliter  than  the  scarlet  of  its  beak  and  feet.  Lay  it 
down,  for  its  companions  are  dashing  round  and  round, 
uttering  harsh  cries  of  rage  and  sorrow ;  and  had  you  the 
heart,  you  could  shoot  them  one  by  one.  At  ebb  of  tide 
wild-looking  children,  from  turf-cabins  on  the  hillside,  come 
down  to  hunt  shell-fish.  Even  now  a  troop  is  busy ;  how 
their  slirill  voices  go  the  while !  Old  Effie,  I  see,  is  out 
to-day,  quite  a  picturesque  object  with  her  white  cap  and 
red  shawl.  With  a  tin  can  in  one  hand,  an  old  reaping- 
hook  in  the  other,  she  goes  poking  among  the  tangle.  Let 
us  see  what  sport  she  lias  had.  She  turns  round  at  our 
salutation,  —  very  old,  old  almost  as  the  worn  rocks  aroxmd. 


IN  A  SKYE  BOTHY.  ^  61 

She  might  ha\e  been  the  wife  of  "Wordsworth's  "  Leech- 
gatherer."  Her  can  is  sprawling  with  brown  crabs  ;  and 
opening  her  apron,  she  exhibits  a  large  black  and  blue 
lobster,  —  a  fellow  such  as  she  alone  can  capture.  A  queer 
woman  is  Effie,  and  an  awsome.  She  is  familiar  with 
ghosts  and  apparitions.  She  can  relate  legends  that  have 
power  over  the  superstitious  blood,  and  with  httle  coaxing 
will  sing  those  wild  Gaelic  songs  of  hers,  —  of  dead  lights 
on  the  sea,  of  fishing-boats  going  down  in  squalls,  of  un- 
buried  bodies  tossing  day  and  night  upon  the  gray  peaks 
of  the  waves,  and  of  girls  that  pray  God  to  lay  them  by 
the  sides  of  their  drowned  lovers  ;  although  for  them  should 
never  rise  mass  nor  chant,  and  although  their  flesh  should 
be  torn  asunder  by  the  wild  fishes  of  the  sea. 

Rain  is  my  enemy  here,  and  at  this  writing  I  am  suffer- 
ing siege.  For  three  days  this  rickety  dwelling  has  stood 
assault  of  wind  and  rain.  Yesterday  a  blast  breached  the 
door,  and  the  tenement  fluttered  for  a  moment  like  an  um- 
brella caught  in  a  gust.  All  seemed  lost,  but  the  door  was 
got  to  again,  heavily  barred  across,  and  the  enemy  foiled. 
An  entrance,  however,  had  been  effected ;  and  that  por- 
tion of  the  attacking  column  which  I  had  imprisoned  by 
my  dexterous  manoeuvre,  maddening  itself  into  whirlwind, 
rushed  up  the  cliimney,  scattering  my  turf  fire  as  it  went, 
and  so  escaped.  Since  that  time  the  windy  columns  have 
retired  to  the  gorges  of  the  hills,  where  I  hear  them  howl 
at  intervals ;  and  the  only  thing  I  am  exposed  to  is  the 
musketry  of  the  rain.  How  viciously  the  small  shot  pep- 
pers the  walls !  Here  must  I  wait  till  the  cloudy  arma- 
ment breaks  up.  One's  own  mind  is  a  dull  companion  in 
these  circumstances.  Sheridan,  —  wont  with  his  talk  to 
brighten  the  table  more  than  the  champagne ;  whose  mind 
was  a  pliosphorescent  sea,  dark  in  its  rest,  every  movement 
a  flash  of  splendor,  —  if  cooped  up  here,  begirt  with  this 
murky  atmosphere,  would  be  dull  as  a  Lincoln  fen  uneQ» 


52  ALEXANDER  SIHTH. 

livened  by  a  single  will-o'-the-wisp.  Books  are  the  only 
refuge  on  a  rainy  day ;  but  in  Skye  Bothies  books  are  rare- 
To  me,  however,  the  gods  have  proved  kind,  for  in  my  sore 
need  I  found  on  a  shelf  here  two  volumes  of  the  old 
Monthly  Review,  and  have  sauntered  through  these  dingy 
literary  catacombs  with  considerable  satisfaction.  What  a 
strange  set  of  old  fogies  the  writers  !  To  read  them  is  hke 
conversing  with  the  antediluvians.  Their  opinions  have 
fallen  into  disuse  long  ago,  and  resemble  to-day  the  rusty 
armor  and  gimcracks  of  a  curiosity-shop.  These  essays 
and  criticisms  were  thought  brilliant,  I  suppose,  when  they 
appeared  last  century,  and  authors  praised  therein  con- 
sidered themselves  rather  handsome  flies,  preserved  in  pure 
critical  amber  for  the  inspection  of  posterity.  The  volumes 
were  published,  I  notice,  from  1790  to  1792,  and  exhibit  a 
period  of  wonderful  literary  activity.  Not  to  speak  of 
novels,  histories,  travels,  farces,  tragedies,  upwards  of  two 
hundred  poems  are  brought  to  judgment.  Plainly,  these 
Monthly  Reviewers  worked  hard,  and  on  the  whole  with 
spirit  and  deftness.  A  proper  sense  of  the  importance  of 
their  craft  had  these  gentlemen ;  they  laid  down  the  law 
with  great  gravity,  and  from  critical  benches  shook  theii* 
awful  wigs  on  offenders.  How  it  all  looks  now  !  "  Let  us 
indulge  oui*selves  with  another  extract,"  quoth  one,  "  and 
contemplate  once  more  the  tear  of  grief  before  we  are 
called  upon  to  witness  the  tear  of  rapture."  Both  tears 
dried  up  long  ago,  as  those  that  sparkled  on  a  Pharaoh's 
cheek.  Hear  this  other,  stem  as  Rhadamanthus ;  behold 
Duty  steeling  itself  against  human  weakness  !  "  It  grieves 
ns  to  wound  a  young  man's  feelings ;  but  our  judgment 
must  not  be  biassed  by  any  plea  whatsoever.  Why  wUl 
men  apply  for  our  opinion,  when  they  know  that  we  cannot 
be  silent,  and  that  we  will  not  lie  ?  "  Listen  to  tliis  prophet 
in  Israf'l,  one  who  has  not  bent  the  knee  to  Baal,  and  say 
if  there  i»  not  a  touch  of  hopeless  pathos  in  him :  "  Fine 


IN  A  SKYE  BOTHY.  53 

woixls  do  not  make  fine  poems.  Scarcely  a  month  passes 
in  which  we  are  not  obliged  to  issue  this  decree.  But  in 
these  days  of  universal  heresy,  our  decrees  are  no  more 
respected  than  the  Bulls  of  the  Bishop  of  Rome."  O  that 
men  would  hoar,  that  they  would  incline  their  hearts  to 
wisdom !  The  ghosts  of  the  dim  literary  Hades  are  get- 
ting tiresome,  and  as  I  look  up,  lo!  the  rain  has  ceased, 
from  sheer  fatigue  :  great  white  vapors  are  rising  from  the 
damp  valleys ;  and,  better  than  all,  pleasant  as  Blucher's 
cannon  on  the  evening  of  "Waterloo,  the  sound  of  wheels 
on  the  boggy  ground ;  and  just  when  the  stanched  rain- 
clouds  are  burning  into  a  suUen  red  at  sunset,  I  have  a 
visitor  in  my  Bothy,  and  pleasant  human  intercourse. 

Broadford  Fair  is  a  great  event  in  the  island.  The  little 
town  lies  on  the  margin  of  a  curving  bay,  and  under  the 
shadow  of  a  somewhat  celebrated  hill.  On  the  crest  of  it 
is  a  cairn  of  stones,  the  burying-place  of  an  ancient  Scan- 
dinavian woman,  tradition  informs  me,  whose  wish  it  was 
to  be  laid  liigh  up  there,  that  she  might  sleep  right  in  the 
pathway  of  the  Norway  wind.  In  a  green  glen,  at  its  base, 
stand  the  ruins  of  the  House  of  Corrichatachin,  where  Bos- 
well  had  his  share^of  four  bowls  of  punch,  and  went  to  bed 
at  five  in  the  morniijg,  and,  awakening  at  noon  with  a  severe 
headache,  saw  Dr.  Johnson  burst  in  upon  him  with  the 
exclamation,  "  Wliat,  drunk  yet ! "  "  His  tone  of  voice  wtja 
not  that  of  severe  upbraiding,"  Avrites  the  penitent  Bozzy, 
"  so  I  was  I'elieved  a  little."  Broadford  is  a  post-town  of 
about  a  dozen  houses,  and  is  a  place  of  great  importance. 
If  Portree  is  the  London  of  Skye,  Broadford  is  its  Man- 
chester. The  markets,  held  every  three  months  or  so,  take 
place  on  a  patch  of  moorland  about  a  mile  from  the  village. 
Not  only  are  cattle  sold  and  cash  exchanged  for  the  same, 
but  there  a  Skye  farmer  meets  his  relations,  from  the  brother 
of  his  blood  to  his  cousin  forty  times  removed.  To  these 
meetings  he  is  drawn,  not  only  by  his  love  of  coin,  but  by 


64  ALEXANDER  SMTH. 

his  love  of  kindred,  and  —  the  Broadford  Mail  and  the 
Portree  Advertiser  lying  yet  in  the  womb  of  time  —  by  his 
love  of  gossip  also.  The  market  is  the  Skyeman's  ex- 
change, his  family  gathering,  and  his  newspaper.  From 
the  deep  sea  of  his  solitude  he  comes  up  to  breathe  there, 
and,  refreshed,  sinks  again.  This  fair  at  Broadford  I  re- 
solved to  see.  Starting  early  in  the  morning,  my  way  for 
the  most  part  lay  through  a  desolation  where  Nature  seemed 
deteriorated,  and  at  her  worst.  Winter  could  not  possibly 
sadden  the  region ;  no  spring  could  quicken  it  into  -Rowers. 
The  lulls  wear  but  for  ornament  the  white  streak  of  the 
torrent;  the  rocky  soil  clothes  itself  in  heather  to  which 
tlie  purple  never  comes.  Even  man,  the  miracle-worker, 
who  transforms  everything  he  touches,  who  has  rescued  a 
fertile  Holland  from  the  waves,  who  has  reared  a  marble 
Venice  from  out  salt  lagunes  and  marshes,  is  defeated  here. 
A  turf  hut,  with  smoke  issuing  from  the  roof,  and  a  patch 
of  sickly  green  around,  which  will  ripen  by  November,  is 
all  that  he  has  won  from  Nature.  Gradually,  as  I  pro- 
ceeded, the  aspect  of  the  coimtry  changed,  began  to  ex- 
hibit traces  of  cultivation ;  and  erelong  the  red  lull  with 
the  Norwegian  woman's  cairn  a-top  rose  before  me,  sug- 
gesting Broadford  and  the  close  of  the  journey.  The  roads 
were  fiUed  with  cattle,  driven  forward  with  oath  and  shout. 
Every  now  and  then,  a  dog-cart  came  skirring  along,  and 
infinite  the  confusion,  and  loud  the  clamor  of  tongues,  when 
one  or  other  plunged  into  a  herd  of  sheep,  or  skittish 
"  three-year-olds."  At  the  entrance  to  the  fair,  the  horses 
were  taken  out  of  the  vehicles,  and  left,  with  a  leathern 
thong  tied  round  their  forelegs,  to  limp  about  in  search  of 
breakfast.  As  you  advance,  on  either  side  of  the  road 
stand  hordes  of  cattle,  the  wildest  looking  creatures,  black, 
white,  dun,  and  cream-colored,  with  fells  of  hair  hanging 
over  their  savage  eyes,  and  graced  with  horns  of  prepos- 
terous dimensions.    Horses  neighed  from  their  stakes,  the 


IN  A  SKTE  BOTHY.  55 

owners  looking  out  for  customers.  Sheep  were  there,  too, 
in  restless  masses,  scattering  hither  and  thither  like  quick- 
silver, with  dogs  and  men  flying  along  their  edges,  excited 
to  the  verge  of  insanity.  What  a  hubbub  of  sound !  What 
lowing  and  neighing !  what  bleating  and  barking !  It  was 
a  novel  sight,  that  rude,  primeval  traffic.  Down  in  the 
hollow  groimd  tents  had  been  knocked  up  since  dawn ; 
there  potatoes  were  being  cooked  for  drovers  who  had  been 
travelling  all  night;  there,  also,  liquor  could  be  had.  To 
these  places,  I  observed,  contracting  parties  invariably  re- 
paired to  solemnize  a  bargain.  Booths  ranged  along  the 
side  of  the  road  were  plentifully  furnished  with  confections, 
ribbons,  and  cheap  jewellery ;  and  as  the  morning  wore  on, 
around  these  the  girls  swarmed  thickly,  as  bees  roimd  sum- 
mer flowei-s.  The  fair  was  nmning  its  fuU  career  of  bar- 
gain-making and  consequent  dram-drinking,  rude  flirtation, 
and  meeting  of  friend  with  friend,  when  up  the  middle  of 
the  road,  hustling  the  passengers,  terrifying  the  cattle,  came 
three  misguided  yoimg  gentlemen  —  medical  students,  I 
opined  —  engaged  in  botanical  researches  iu  these  regions. 
Evidently  they  had  been  "dwellers  in  tents."  One  of 
them,  gifted  with  a  comic  genius,  —  his  companions  were 
desperately  solemn,  —  at  one  point  of  the  road,  threw  back 
his  coat,  in  emulatioh  of  Sambo  when  he  brings  down  the 
applauses  of  the  threepenny  gallery,  and  executed  a  shuffle 
in  front  of  a  bewildered  cow.  Crummie  backed  and  shied, 
bent  on  retreat.  He,  agile  as  a  cork,  bobbed  up  and  down 
in  her  front,  turn  whither  she  would,  with  shouts  and  hideous 
grimaces,  his  companions  standing  by  the  while  like  mutes 
at  a  funeral.  That  feat  accomplished,  the  trio  staggered 
on,  amid  the  derision  and  scornful  laughter  of  the  Gael. 
Lifting  our  eyes  up  out  of  the  noise  and  confusion,  there 
were  the  solitaiy  mountain-tops  and  the  clear  mirror  of 
Broadford  Bay,  the  opposite  coast  sleeping  green  in  it  with 
all  its  woods ;  and  lo !  the  steamer  from  the  South  sliding 


56  ALEXANDER  SMITH. 

in,  with  her  red  funnel,  breaMng  the  reflection  with  a  tract 
of  foam,  and  disturbing  the  far-off  morning  silence  with  the 
thunder  of  her  paddles.  By  noon,  a  considerable  stroke  of 
business  had  been  done.  Hordes  of  bellowing  cattle  were 
being  driven  off  toward  Broadford,  and  di'overs  were  rush- 
ing about  in  a  wonderful  manner,  anned  with  tar-pot  and 
stick,  smearing  their  peculiar  mark  upon  the  shaggy  hides 
of  their  purchases.  Rough-looking  customers  enough,  these 
fellows,  yet  they  want  not  means.  Some  of  them,  I  am 
told,  came  here  this  morning  with  five  hundred  pounds  in 
their  pockot-books,  and  have  spent  every  paper  of  it,  and 
this  day  three  months  they  wiU  return  with  as  large  a  sura. 
By  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  place  was  deserted 
by  cattle,  and  fun  and  business  gathered  round  the  booths 
and  refreshment  tents,  the  noise  increasing  every  hour,  and 
towards  evening  deepem'ng  into  brawl  and  general  combat. 
During  the  last  few  weeks  I  have  had  opportunity  of  wit- 
nessing something  of  life  as  it  passes  in  the  Skye  wilder- 
nesses, and  have  been  struck  with  its  seU-containedness,  not 
less  than  with  its  remoteness.  A  Skye  family  has  every- 
thing within  itself.  The  bare  mountains  yield  them  mutton, 
of  a  flavor  and  delicacy  unknown  in  the  south.  The  copses 
swarm  with  rabbits ;  and  if  a  net  is  set  over  night  at  the 
Black  Island,  there  is  abundance  of  fish  to  breakfast.  The 
farmer  grows  his  own  com,  barley,  and  potatoes,  digs  his 
own  peats,  makes  his  own  candles;  he  tans  leather,  spins 
cloth  shaggy  as  a  terrier's  pUe,  and  a  hunchback  artist  on 
.  the  place  transforms  the  raw  materials  into  boots  or  shep- 
herd garments.  Twice  every  year  a  huge  hamper  arrives 
from  Glasgow,  stuffed  with  all  the  little  luxuries  of  house- 
keeping,—  tea,  sugar,  coffee,  and  the  like.  At  more  fre- 
quent intervals  comes  a  ten-gallon  cask  from  Greenock, 
whose  contents  can  cunningly  draw  the  icy  fangs  of  a  north- 
easter, or  take  the  chill  out  of  the  clammy  mists. 
"  What  want  they  that  a  king  should  have  1 " 


m  A  SKYE  BOTHY.  57 

And  once  a  week  tlie  Inverness  Courier,  like  a  window  sud- 
denly opened  on  the  roaring  sea,  brings  a  munniir  of  the 
outer  world,  its  politics,  its  business,  its  crimes,  its  literature, 
its  whole  multitudinous  and  imsleeping  life,  making  the 
stillness  yet  more  stiU.  To  the  Isle'sman  the  dial  face  of 
the  year  is  not  artificially  divided,  as  in  cities,  by  parlia- 
mentary session  and  recess,  college  terms  or  vacations,  short 
and  long,  by  the  rising  and  sitting  of  courts  of  justice  nor 
yet,  as  in  more  fortimate  soils,  by  imperceptible  gradations 
of  colored  light,  the  green  flowery  year  deepening  into  the 
sunset  of  the  October  hollyhock,  the  slow  reddening  of  bur- 
dened orchards,  the  slow  yellowing  of  wheaten  plains. 
Not  by  any  of  these,  but  by  the  higher  and  more  affecting 
element  of  animal  life,  with  its  passions  and  instincts,  its 
gladness  and  suffering ;  existence  like  our  own,  although  in 
a  lower  key,  and  untouched  by  its  solemn  issues  ;  the  same 
music  and  wail,  although  struck  on  ruder  and  uncertain 
chords.  To  the  Isle'sman,  the  year  rises  into  interest 
when  the  lulls,  yet  wet  with  melted  snows,  are  pathetic 
with  newly-yeaned  lambs,  and  completes  itself  through  the 
successive  steps  of  weaning,  fleecing,  sorting,  fattening,  sale, 
final  departure,  aiid  cash  in  pocket.  The  shepherd  life  is 
more  interesting  th^n  the  agricultural,  inasmuch  as  it  deals 
with  a  higher  order  of  being ;  for  I  suppose  —  apart  from 
considerations  of  profit  —  a  couchant  ewe,  with  her  you::g 
one  at  her  side,  or  a  ram,  "  with  wreathed  horns  Huperb," 
cropping  the  herbage,  is  a  more  pleasing  object  to  the  a3S- 
thetic  sense  than  a  field  of  mangold-wurzel,  flourishing  ever 
so  gloriously.  The  shepherd  inhabits  a  mountain  country, 
lives  more  completely  in  the  open  air,  and  is  acquainted 
with  all  phenomena  of  storm  and  calm,  the  thunder-smoke 
coiling  in  the  wind,  the  hawk  hanging  stationary  in  the 
breathless  blue.  He  knows  the  faces  of  the  hills,  recog- 
nizes the  voices  of  the  torrents  as  if  they  Avere  children  of 
his  own,  can  unknit  their  intricate  melody,  as  he  lies  with 


58  ALEXANDER  SMITH. 

his  dog  beside  him  on  the  warm  slope  at  noon,  separating 
tone  from  tone,  and  giving  this  to  iron  crag,  that  to  pebbly 
bottom.  From  long  intercourse,  every  member  of  his  flock 
wears  to  his  eye  its  special  individuality,  and  he  recognizes 
the  countenance  of  a  "  wether "  as  he  would  the  comite- 
nance  of  a  human  acquaintance.  Sheep-farming  is  a  pic- 
turesque occupation;  and  I  think  a  cataract  of  sheep  de- 
scending A  hillside,  now  gathering  into  a  mighty  pool,  now 
emptying  itself  in  a  rapid  stream,  —  the  dogs,  urged  more 
6y  sagacity  than  by  the  shepherd's  voice,  flying  along  the 
edges,  tuiTung,  guiding,  changing  the  shape  of  the  mass,  — 
one  of  the  prettiest  sights  in  the  world.  But  the  most 
affecting  incident  of  shepherd  life  is  the  weaning  of  the 
lambs ;  —  aflffictrng,  because  it  reveals  passions  in  the  "  fleecy 
foois,"  the  mamfestation  of  which  we  are  accustomed  to 
consider  ornamental  in  ourselves.  From  all  the  hills  men 
and  dogs  drive  the  flocks  d(iwn  into  a  fold,  or  fank,  as  it 
is  called  ncre,  consisting  of  several  chambers  or  compart- 
ments. Into  these  compartments  the  sheep  are  huddled, 
and  then  the  separation  takes  place.  The  ewes  are  re- 
turned to  the  mountains,  the  lambs  are  driven  away  to 
some  spot  where  tne  pasture  is  rich,  and  whei-e  they  ai'e 
watched  day  and  night.  Midnight  comes  with  dews  and 
stars ;  the  troop  is  couched  peacefully  as  the  cloudlets  of 
a  summer  sky.  Suddenly  the}-  are  i-estless,  ill  at  ease, 
goaded  by  some  sore  unknown  want,  jti*d  evince  a  dispo- 
sition to  scatter  in  every  direction ;  out  «he  shepherds  are 
wary,  the  dogs  swift  and  sure,  and  atlei  a  tittle  while  the 
pertuibation  is  allayed,  and  they  rest  agnm.  Walk  up 
now  to  the  fank.  The  full  moon  is  riding  between  the 
hills,  filling  the  glen  with  lustre  and  floating  mysterious 
glooms.  Listen  !  You  hear  it  on  every  sidt/  of  you,  till 
it  dies  away  in  the  silence  of  distance,  —  the  hetjcy  Rachel 
weeping  for  her  children.  The  turf  walls  of  the  tank  are 
in  sliadow,  but  something  seems  to  be  moving  theitJ.    As 


IN  A  SKYE  BOTHY.  59 

you  approach,  it  disappears  with  a  quick,  short  bleat,  and 
a  hurry  of  tiny  hooves.  Wonderful  mystery  of  instinct ! 
Affection  all  the  more  touching  that  it  is  so  wrapt  in  dark- 
ness, hardly  knowing  its  own  meaning !  For  nights  and 
nights  the  creatures  will  be  found  haunting  about  these 
turfen  walls,  seeking  the  young  that  have  been  taken 
away. 

But  my  chief  delight  here  is  my  friend  and  neighbor, 
Mr.  Maclan.  He  was  a  soldier  in  his  youth :  is  now 
very  old,  —  ninety  and  odd,  I  should  say.  He  would 
strike  one  with  a  sense  of  strangeness  in  a  city,  and  among 
men  of  the  present  generation.  Here,  however,  he  creates 
no  surprise  ;  he  is  a  natural  product  of  the  region,  like  the 
red  heather,  or  the  bed  of  the  dried  torrent.  He  is  a 
master  of  legendary  lore.  He  knows  the  history  of  every 
considerable  family  in  the  island ;  he  circulates  like  sap 
through  every  genealogical  tree ;  he  is  an  enthusiast  in 
Gaelic  poetry,  and  is  fond  of  reciting  compositions  of  native 
bards,  his  eyes  lighted  up,  and  his  tongue  moving  glibly 
over  the  rugged  clots  of  consonants.  He  has  a  servant 
cunning  upon  the  pipes,  and,  dwelling  there  for  a  week,  I 
heard  Ronald  often  wandering  near  the  house,  solacing 
himself  with  their  tnusic ;  now  a  plaintive  love-song,  now 
a  coronach  for  chieftain  borne  to  his  grave,  now  a  battle 
march,  the  notes  of  which,  melancholy  and  monotonous  at 
first,  would  all  at  once  soar  into  a  higher  strain,  and  then 
hurry  and  madden  as  beating  time  to  the  footsteps  of  the 
charging  clan.  I  am  the  fool  of  association ;  and  the  tree 
under  which  a  king  has  rested,  the  stone  in  which  a  banner 
was  planted  on  the  morning  of  some  victorious  or  disas- 
trous day,  the  house  in  which  some  great  man  first  saw  the 
light,  are  to  me  the  sacredest  things.  This  slight,  gray, 
keen  -eyed  man  —  the  scabbard  sorely  frayed  now,  the  blade 
sharp  and  bright  as  ever  —  gives  me  a  thrill  like  an  old 
coin  with  its  half^  obliterated  effigy,  a   Druid  stone  on  a 


60  ALEXANDER  SMITH. 

moor,  a  stain  of  blood  on  the  floor  of  a  palace.  He  stands 
before  me  a  living  figure,  and  history  groups  itself  behind 
by  way  of  background.  He  sits  at  the  same  board  with 
me,  and  yet  he  lifted  Moore  at  Gjrunna,  and  saw  the  gal- 
lant dying  eyes  flash  up  with  their  last  pleasure  when  the 
Highlanders  charged  past.  He  lay  down  to  sleep  in  the 
light  of  Wellington's  watch-fires  in  the  gorges  of  the  piny 
Pyrenees ;  around  him  roared  the  death  thunders  of  Water- 
loo. There  is  a  certain  awfulness  about  very  old  men ; 
they  are  amongst  us,  but  not  of  us.  They  crop  out  of  the 
living  soil  and  herbage  of  to-day,  like  rocky  strata  bearing 
marks  of  the  glacier  or  the  wave.  Their  roots  strike 
deeper  than  ours,  and  they  draw  sustenance  from  an  earher 
layer  of  soil.  They  are  lonely  amongst  the  young ;  they 
cannot  form  new  friendships,  and  are  wilhng  to  be  gone. 
They  feel  the  "  sublime  attractions  of  the  grave  "  ;  for  the 
soil  of  churchyards  once  flashed  kind  eyes  on  them, 
heard  with  them  the  cliimes  at  midnight,  sang  and  clashed 
the  brimming  goblet  >vith  them ;  and  the  present  Tom  and 
Harry  are  as  nothing  to  the  Tom  and  Harry  that  swag- 
gered about  and  toasted  the  reigning  belles  seventy  years 
ago.  We  are  accustomed  to  lament  the  shortness  of  life ; 
but  it  is  wonderful  how  long  it  is  notwithstanding.  Often  a 
single  life,  like  a  summer  twilight,  connects  two  histoiic 
days.  Count  back  four  lives,  and  King  Charles  is  kneeling 
on  the  scaffold  at  Whitehall.  To  hear  Maclan  speak,  one 
could  not  help  thinking  in  tliis  way.  In  a  short  run  across 
the  mainland  with  him  this  summer,  we  reached  Culloden 
Moor.  The  old  gentleman  with  a  mournful  air  —  for  he  is 
a  great  Jacobite,  and  wears  the  Prince's  hair  in  a  ring — 
pointed  out  the  burial-grounds  of  the  clans.  Struck  with 
his  manner,  I  mquired  how  he  came  to  know  their  red 
resting-places.  As  if  hurt,  he  drew  himself  up,  laid  his 
hand  on  my  shoulder,  saying,  "  Those  who  put  them  in  told 
me."     Heavens,  how  a  century  and  odd  years  collapsed, 


IN  A  SKYE  BOTHY.  61 

and  the  bloody  field,  —  the  battle-smoke  not  yet  cleared 
away,  and  where  Cumberland's  artillery  told  the  clansmen 
sleeping  in  thickest  swaths,  —  unrolled  itself  from  the 
horizon  down  to  my  very  feet !  For  a  whole  evening  he 
will  sit  and  speak  of  his  London  life;  and  I  cannot  help 
contrasting  the  young  officer,  who  trod  Bond  Street  with 
powder  in  his  hair  at  the  end  of  last  century,  with  the  old 
man  living  in  the  shadow  of  Blavin  now. 

Dwellers  in  cities  have  occasionally  seen  a  house  that 
has  tlie  reputation  of  being  haunted,  and  heard  a  ghost  story 
told.  Most  of  tlaem  have  knowledge  of  the  trumpet-blast 
that  sounds  when  a  member  of  the  Airlie  family  is  about 
to  die.  Some  few  may  have  heard  of  the  Irish  gentleman 
who,  seated  in  the  London  opera-house  on  the  night  liis 
brother  died,  heard  above  the  clash  of  the  orchestra  and  the 
passion  of  the  singers,  the  shrUl  warning  keen  of  the  banshee, 
—  an  evU  omen  always  to  him  and  his.  City  people  laugh 
when  these  stories  are  told,  even  although  the  blood  should 
run  chill  the  while.  Here,  one  is  steeped  in  a  ghostly  at- 
mosphere :  men  walk  about  here  gifted  with  the  second 
sight.  There  has  been  something  weird  and  uncanny  about 
the  island  for  some  t;enturies.  Douglas,  on  the  morning  of 
Otterboume,  according^  to  the  ballad,  was  shaken  unto  super- 
stitious fears :  — 

"  But  I  hae  dreamed  a  dreary  dream. 

Beyond  the  Isle  of  Skye  ; 
I  saw  a  dead  man  win  a  fight, 

And  I  think  that  man  was  I." 

Then  the  island  is  full  of  strange  legends  of  the  Noi-we- 
gian  times  and  earlier,  —  legends  it  might  be  worth  Mr. 
Dasent's  while  to  take  note  of,  should  he  ever  visit  the  rainy 
Hebrides.  One  such  legend,  concerning  Ossian  and  his 
poems,  struck  me  a  good  deal.  Near  Mr.  Maclan's  j)lace 
is  a  ruined  castle,  a  mere  hollow  shell  of  a  building,  Dun- 
Bcaith  by  name,  built  in  Fingalian  days  by  the  chieftain 


62  ALEXANDER  SMTH. 

Cuchullin,  and  so  called  in  honor  of  his  wife.  The  pile 
crumbles  over  the  sea  on  a  rocky  headland  bearded  by 
gray  green  lichens.  The  place  is  quite  desolate,  and  sel- 
dom visited.  The  only  sounds  heard  there  are  the  shai-p 
wliistle  of  the  salt  breeze,  the  bleat  of  a  strayed  sheep,  the 
ciy  of  wheeling  sea-birds.  Maclan  and  myself  sat  one  sum- 
mer day  on  the  ruined  stair.  The  sea  lay  calm  and  bright 
beneath,  its  expanse  broken  only  by  a  creeping  sail.  Across 
the  loch  rose  the  great  red  liill,  in  the  shadow  of  which 
Boswell  got  drunk ;  on  the  top  of  wliich  is  perched  the 
Scandinavian  woman's  cairn.  And  out  of  the  bare  blue 
heaven,  down  on  the  ragged  fringe  of  the  Coolin  liiUs,  flowed 
a  great  white  vapor  gathering  in  the  sunlight  in  mighty 
fleece  on  fleece.  The  old  gentleman  was  the  narrator,  and 
the  legend  goes  as  follows :  —  The  castle  was  built  by  Cu- 
chullin and  his  Fingalians  in  a  single  night.  The  chief- 
tain had  many  retainers,  was  a  great  hunter,  and  terrible 
in  war.  Every  night  at  feast  the  minstrel  Ossian  sang  his 
exploits.  Ossian,  on  one  occasion,  in  wandering  among  the 
hills,  was  struck  by  sweet  strains  of  music  that  seemed  to 
issue  from  a  green  knoll  on  which  the  sun  shone  tempt- 
ingly. He  sat  do\vn  to  listen,  and  was  lulled  asleep  by 
the  melody.  He  had  no  sooner  fallen  asleep  than  the  knoll 
opened,  and  he  beheld  the  under-world  of  the  fairies.  That 
afternoon  and  the  succeeding  night  he  spent  in  revelry, 
and  in  the  morning  he  was  allowed  to  return.  Again  the 
music  sounded,  again  the  senses  of  the  minstrel  were  steeped 
in  forgetfulness.  And  on  the  sunny  knoll  he  awoke  a  gray- 
hah-ed  man  ;  for  in  one  short  fairy  afternoon  and  evening 
had  been  crowded  a  hundred  of  our  human  years.  In  his 
absence,  the  world  had  entirely  changed,  the  Fingalians 
were  extinct,  and  the  dwarfish  race,  wliom  we  call  men, 
were  possessore  of  the  country.  Longing  for  companion- 
sliip,  Ossian  married  the  daugliter  of  a  sliepherd,  and  in 
process  of  time  a  little  girl  was  born  to  him.     Ycare  passed 


IN  A  SKYE  BOTHY.  63 

on ;  his  wife  died,  and  his  daughter,  woman  gi'own  now, 
married  a  pious  man,  —  for  the  people  were  Christianized 
by  this  time,  —  called,  from  his  love  of  psalmody,  Peter 
of  the  Psalms.  Ossian,  blind  with  age,  went  to  reside  with 
his  daughter  and  her  husband.  Peter  was  engaged  all 
day  in  himting,  and  when  he  came  home  at  evening,  and 
when  the  lamp  was  lighted,  Ossian,  sitting  in  a  wu^-m 
comer,  was  wont  to  recite  the  wonderful  songs  of  :  pa 
youth,  and  to  celebrate  the  mighty  battles  and  hunting 
feats  of  the  big^boned  Fingalians.  To  these  songs  Peter 
of  the  Psalms  gave  attentive  ear,  and  being  something  of 
a  penman,  carefully  inscribed  them  in  a  book.  One  day 
Peter  had  been  more  than  usually  successful  in  the  chase, 
and  brought  home  on  liis  shoulders  the  carcass  of  a  huge 
stag.  Of  this  stag  a  leg  was  dressed  for  supper,  and  when 
it  was  picked  bare,  Peter  triiunphantly  inquired  of  Ossian, 
"  In  the  Fingalian  days  you  speak  about,  killed  you  ever 
a  stag  so  large  as  this  ? "  Ossian  balanced  the  bone  in 
his  hand ;  then,  sniffing  intense  disdain,  replied,  "  This 
bone,  big  as  you  tliink  it,  could  be  dropped  into  the  hoUow 
of  a  Fingalian  blackbird's  leg."  Peter  of  the  Psalms,  en- 
raged at  what  he  conceived  an  unconceivable  crammer  on 
the  part  of  his  father-i|i-law,  started  up,  swearing  that  he 
would  not  ruin  his  soul  by  preserving  any  more  of  his 
lying  songs,  and  flung  the  volume  in  the  fire ;  but  liis  wife 
darted  forward  and  snatched  it  up,  half-charred,  fx-om  the 
embers.  At  this  conduct  on  the  part  of  Peter,  Ossian 
groaned  in  spirit,  and  wished  to  die,  that  he  might  be 
saved  from  the  envy  and  stupidities  of  the  little  people, 
wliose  minds  were  as  stunted  as  their  bodies.  When  he 
went  to  bed  he  implored  his  ancient  gods  —  for  he  was 
a  sad  heathen  —  to  resuscitate,  if  but  for  one  hour,  the 
hounds,  the  stags,  and  the  blackbii'ds  of  his  youth,  that  he 
miglit  astonish  and  confound  the  unbelieving  Peter.  His 
prayers  done,  he  fell  on  slumber,  and  just  before  dawn  a 


64  ALEXANDER  SMITH. 

weight  upon  his  breast  awoke  him.  To  his  great  joy,  he 
found  that  his  prayers  were  answered,  for  upon  his  breast 
was  crouched  his  favorite  hound.  He  spoke  to  it,  and  tJie 
faithful  creature  whimpered  and  licked  his  face.  Swiftly 
he  called  his  little  grandson,  and  they  went  out  with  the 
hound.  When  they  came  to  the  top  of  an  eminence,  Ossian 
said,  "  Put  your  fingers  in  your  ears,  httle  one,  else  I 
will  make  you  deaf  for  life."  The  boy  put  his  fingers  in 
his  ears,  and  then  Ossian  whistled  so  loud  that  the  whole 
world  rang.  He  then  asked  the  child  if  he  saw  anything. 
"  O,  such  large  deer ! "  said  the  child.  "  But  a  small  herd, 
by  the  sound  of  it,"  said  Ossian ;  "  we  ^vill  let  that  herd 
pass."  Presently  the  child  called  out,  "  0,  such  large 
deerl"  Ossian  bent  his  ear  to  the  ground  to  catch  the 
sound  of  their  coming,  and  then,  as  if  satisfied,  let  slip 
the  hound,  who  speedily  tore  down  seven  of  the  fattest 
When  the  animals  were  skinned  and  laid  in  order,  Ossian 
went  towards  a  large  lake,  in  the  centre  of  which  giew  a 
remarkable  bunch  of  rushes.  He  waded-  into  the  lake, 
tore  up  the  rushes,  and  brought  to  light  the  great  Finga- 
lian  kettle,  which  had  lain  there  for  more  tlian  a  century. 
Returning  to  their  quarry,  a  fire  was  kindled ;  the  kettle 
containing  the  seven  carcasses  was  placed  tliereupon ;  and 
soon  a  most  savory  smeU  was  spread  abroad  upon  aU  the 
winds.  When  the  animals  were  stewed,  after  the  approved 
fasliion  of  liis  ancestors,  Ossian  sat  down  to  his  repast. 
Now  as,  since  his  sojourn  with  the  fairies,  he  had  never 
enjoyed  a  sufficient  meal,  it  was  liis  custom  to  gather  up 
the  superfluous  folds  of  his  stomach  by  wooden  sphnts, 
nine  in  number.  As  he  now  fed  and  expanded,  splint 
after  splint  was  thrown  away,  tUl  at  last,  when  the  kettle 
was  emptied,  he  lay  down  perfectly  satisfied,  and  silent  as 
ocean  at  the  full  of  tide.  Recovering  liimself,  he  gathered 
all  the  bones  together,  —  set  fire  to  them,  till  the  black 
smoke  which  arose  darkened  the   heaven.     "  Little  one," 


IN  A  SKYE  BOTHY.  65 

then  said  Ossian,  "  go  up  to  the  knoll,  and  tell  me  if  you 
see  anything."  "A  great  bii-d  is  flying  hither,"  said  the 
child ;  and  immediately  the  great  Fingalian  blackbird 
alighted  at  the  feet  of  Ossian,  who  at  once  caught  and 
throttled  it.  The  fowl  was  carried  home,  and  was  in  the 
evening  dressed  for  supper.  After  it  was  devoured,  Ossian 
called  for  the  stag's  thigh-bone  which  had  been  the  original 
cause  of  quarrel,  and,  before  the  face  of  the  astonished  and 
convicted  Peter  of  the  Psalms,  dropped  it  in  the  hollow  of 
the  blackbird's  leg.  Ossian  died  on  the  night  of  his  tri- 
umph, and  the  only  record  of  his  songs  is  the  volume  Avhich 
Peter  in  his  rage  threw  into  the  fire,  and  from  which,  when 
half  consumed,  it  was  rescued  by  his  wife. 

I  am  to  stay  Avith  Mr.  Maclan  to-night.  A  wedding  has 
taken  place  up  among  the  hills,  and  the  whole  party  have 
been  asked  to  make  a  night  of  it.  The  mighty  kitchen  has 
been  cleared  for  the  occasion ;  torches  are  stuck  up  ready 
to  be  lighted ;  and  I  already  hear  the  first  mutterings  of 
the  bagpipe's  storm  of  sound.  The  old  gentleman  wears 
a  look  of  brightness  and  hilarity,  and  vows  that  he  will 
lead  off  the  first  reel  with  the  bride.  Everything  is  pre- 
pared ;  and  •  even  now  the  bridal  party  are  coming  down 
the  steep  hill  road.  I  must  go  out  to  meet  them.  To-mor- 
row I  return  to  my  bothy,  to  watch  the  sunny  mists  congre- 
gating on  the  crests  of  Blavin  in  radiant  billow  on  billow, 
and  on  which  the  level  heaven  seems  to  lean. 


RUINS. 


By  JAMES  GATES  PEKCIVAL. 


EARTH  13  a  waste  of  ruins  ;  so  I  deemed, 
When  the  broad  sun  was  sinking  in  the  sea 
Of  sand  that,  rolled  around  Palmyra.     Night 
Shared  with  the  djing  day  a  lonely  sky, 
The  canopy  of  regions  void  of  life, 
And  still  as  one  interminable  tomb. 
The  shadows  gathered  on  the  desert,  dark 
And  darker,  till  alone  one  purple  arch 
Marked  the  far  place  of  setting.    All  above 
Was  purely  azure,  for  no  moon  in  heaven 
Walked  in  her  brightness,  and  with  snowy  light 
Softened  the  deep  intensity,  that  gave 
Such  awe  unto  the  blue  serenity 
Of  the  high  throne  of  gods,'  the  dwelling-place 
Of  suns  and  stars,  which  are  to  us  as  gods. 
The  fountains  of  existence  and  the  seat 
Of  all  we  dream  of  glory.     Dim  and  vast 
The  ruins  stood  around  me,  —  temples,  fanes, 
Wliere  the  bright  sun  was  worshipped,  —  where  they  gave 
Homage  to  Him  who  frowns  in  storms,  and  rolls 
The  desert  like  an  ocean,  —  where  they  bowed 
Unto  the  queen  of  beauty,  she  in  heaven 
Who  gives  the  night  its  loveliness,  and  smiles 
Serenely  on  the  drifted  waste,  and  lends 


Eums.  67 

A  silver  softness  to  the  ridgy  wave 
"Wliere  the  dark  Arab  sojourns,  and  with  tales 
Of  love  and  beauty  wears  the  tranquil  night 
In  poetry  away,  her  light  the  while 
Falling  upon  him,  as  a  spirit  falls, 
Dove-like  or  curling  down  in  flame,  a  star 
Sparkling  amid  his  flowing  locks,  or  dews 
That  melt  in  gold,  and  steal  into  the  hearty 
Making  it  one  enthusiastic  glow, 
As  if  the  God  were  present,  and  his  voice 
Spake  on  the  eloquent  lips  that  pour  abroad 
A  gush  of  inspiration, — bright  as  waves 
Swelling  around  Aurora's  car,  intense 
With  passion  as  the  fire  that  ever  flows 
In  fountains  on  the  Caspian  shore,  and  full 
As  the  wide-roUing  majesty  of  Nile. 

Over  these  temples  of  an  age  of  wild 
And  dark  belief,  and  yet  magnificent 
In  all  that  strikes  the  senses,  —  beautiful 
In  the  fair  forms  they  knelt  to,  and  the  domes 
And  pillars  which  upreared  them,  —  fuU  of  life 
In  their  poetic  festivals,  when  youth 
Gave  loose  to  all  its  energy,  in  dance. 
And  song,  and  every  charm  the  fancy  weaves 
In  the  soft  twine  of  cultured  speech,  attuned 
In  perfect  concord  to  the  full-toned  lyre  : 
When  nations  gathered  to  behold  the  pomp 
That  issued  from  the  hallowed  shrine  in  choirs 
Of  youths,  who  bounded  to  the  minstrelsy 
Of  tender  voices,  and  all  instruments 
Of  ancient  harmony,  in  solemn  trains 
Bearing  the  votive  offerings,  flowing  horns 
Of  plenty  wreathed  with  flowers,  and  gushing  o'er 
With  the  ripe  clusters  of  the  purple  vine, 


68  JAMES  GArES  PERCIVAL. 

The  violet  of  the  fig,  the  scarlet  flush 
Of  granates  peeping  from  the  parted  rind, 
The  citron  shining  through  its  glossy  leaves 
In  burnished  gold,  the  carmine  veiled  in  down, 
Like  mountain  snow,  on  which  the  living  stream 
Flowed  from  Astarte's  minion,  all  that  hang 
In  Eastern  gardens  blended,  —  while  the  sheaf 
Nods  with  its  loaded  ears,  and  brimming  bowls 
Foam  with  the  kindling  element,  the  joy 
Of  banquet,  and  the  nectar  that  inspires 
Man  with  the  glories  of  a  heightened  power 
To  feel  the  touch  of  beauty,  and  combine 
The  scattered  forms  of  elegance,  tUl  high 
Eises  a  magic  vision,  blending  all 
That  we  have  seen  of  glory,  such  as  drew 
Assembled  Greece  to  worship,  when  the  form, 
Who  gathered  all  its  loveliness,  arose 
Dewy  and  blushing  from  the  parent  foam, 
Than  which  her  tint  was  fairer,  and  with  hand 
That  seemed  of  living  marble  parted  back 
Her  raven  locks,  and  upward  looked  to  Heaven, 
Smiling  to  see  aU  Nature  bright  and  calm ;  — 
Over  these  temples,  whose  long  coloYinades 
Are  parted  by  the  hand  of  time,  and  fall 
Pillar  by  pillar,  block  by  block,  and  strew 
The  ground  in  shapeless  ruin,  night  descends 
Unmingled,  and  the  many  stars  shoot  through 
The  gaps  of  broken  walls,  and  glance  between 
The  shafts  of  tottering  columns,  marking  out 
Obscurely,  on  the  dark  blue  sky,  the  form 
Of  Desolation,  who  hath  made  these  piles 
Her  home,  and,  sitting  with  her  folded  wings. 
Wraps  in  her  dusty  robe  the  skeletons 
Of  a  once  countless  multitude,  whose  toil 
Reared  palaces  and  theatres,  and  brought 


RUINS.  69 

All  the  fair  forms  of  Grecian  art  to  ^ve 
Glory  unto  an  island  girt  with  sands 
As  barren  as  the  ocean,  where  the  grave 
And  stately  Doric  marked  the  solemn  fane 
Where  wisdom  dwelt,  and  on  the  fairer  shrine 
Of  beauty  sprang  the  light  Ionian,  wreathed 
With  a  soft  volute,  whose  simplicity 
Becomes  the  deity  of  loveliness. 
Who  with  her  snowy  mantle,  and  her  zone 
Woven  with  all  attractions,  and  her  locks 
Flowing  as  Nature  bade  them  flow,  compels 
The  sterner  Powers  to  hang  upon  her  smiles. 
And  there  the  grand  Corinthian  lifted  liigh 
Its  flowery  capital,  to  crown  the  porch 
Where  sat  the  sovereign  of  their  liierarchy. 
The  monarch  armed  with  terror,  whose  curled  locks 
Shaded  a  brow  of  thought  and  firm  resolve, 
Whose  eye,  deep  sunk,  shot  out  its  central  fires, 
To  blast  and  witlier  all  who  dared  confront 
The  gaze  of  highest  power  ;  so  sat  their  kings 
Enshrined  in  palaces,  and  when  they  came 
Thundering  on  their  triumphal  cars,  all  bright 
With  diadem  of  gold,  and  purple  robe 
Flashing  with  gems,  before  their  rushing  train 
Moving  in  serried  columns  fenced  in  steel. 
The  herd  of  slaves  obsequious  sought  the  dust, 
And  gazed  not  as  the  mystic  pomp  rolled  by. 
Such  were  thy  monarchs,  Tadmor !  now  thy  streets 
Are  silent,  and  thy  walls  o'erthrown,  no  voice 
Speaks  tlirough  the  long  dim  night  of  years,  to  tell 
These  were  once  peopled  dwellings ;  I  could  dream 
Some  sorcerer  in  his  moonliglit  wanderings  reared 
These  wonders  in  an  hour  of  sport,  to  mock 
The  stranger  with  the  show  of  life,  and  send 
Thought  through  the  mist  of  ages,  in  the  search 


70  JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL. 

Of  nations  who  are  now  no  more,  who  lived 

Eret  in  the  pride  of  empire,  ruled  and  swayed 

Millions  in  their  supremacy,  and  toiled 

To  pile  these  monuments  of  wealth  and  skill, 

That  here  the  wandering  tribe  might  pitch  its  tents 

Securer  in  their  empty  courts,  and  we, 

Who  have  the  sense  of  greatness,  low  might  kneel 

To  ancient  mind,  and  gather  from  the  torn 

And  scattered  fragments  visions  of  the  power, 

And  splendor,  and  sublimity  of  old, 

Mocking  the  grandest  canopy  of  heaven, 

And  imaging  the  pomp  of  gods  below. 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

(from  a  letteb.) 
By  MRS.  JAMESON. 

I  WILL  here  put  together  some  recollections  of  my  own 
cliild-life ;  not  because  it  was  in  any  respect  an  excep- 
tional or  remarkable  existence,  but  for  a  reason  exactly  the 
reverse,  because  it  was  like  that  of  many  children  ;  at  least 
I  have  met  with  many  children  who  throve  or  suffered  from 
the  same  or  similar  unseen  causes  even  under  external  con- 
ditions and  management  every  way  dissimilar.  Facts,  there- 
fore, which  can  be  relied  on,  may  be  generally  useful  as 
hints  towards  a  theory  (Jf  conduct.  What  I  shall  say  here 
bhall  be  simply  the  truth  so  far  as  it  goes ;  not  something 
between  the  false  and  the  true,  garnished  for  effect,  —  not 
sometliing  half  remembered,  half  imagined,  —  but  plain,  ab- 
solute, matter  of  fact. 

No ;  certainly  I  was  not  an  extraordinary  child.  I  have 
had  something  to  do  with  children,  and  have  met  with 
several  more  remarkable  for  quickness  of  talent  and  pre- 
cocity of  feeling.  If  anything  in  particular,  I  believe  I  was 
particularly  naughty,  —  at  least  so  it  was  said  twenty  times 
a  day.  But  looking  back  now,  I  do  not  think  I  was  par- 
ticular even  in  this  respect ;  I  perpetrated  not  more  than 
the  usual  amount  of  mischief — so  called  —  wliich  every 
Kvely,  active  child  perpetrates  between  five  and  ten  years 
old.    I  had  the  usual  desire  to  know,  and  the  usual  dislO'^ 


72  MRS.  JAMESON. 

to  learn ;  the  usual  love  of  fairy-tales-,  and  hatred  of  French 
exercises.  But  not  of  what  I  learned,  but  of  what  I  did  not 
leai-n  ;  not  of  what  they  taught  me,  but  of  what  they  could 
not  teach  me  ;  not  of  what  was  open,  apparent,  manageable, 
but  of  the  under-current,  the  hidden,  the  unmanaged  or 
unmanageable,  I  have  to  speak,  and  you,  my  friend,  to  hear 
and  turn  to  account,  if  you  will,  and  how  you  will.  As  we 
grow  old  the  experiences  of  infancy  come  back  upon  us 
with  a  strange  vividness.  There  is  a  period  when  the  over- 
flowing, tumultuous  life  of  our  youth  rises  up  between  us 
and  those  first  years  ;  but  as  the  torrent  subsides  in  its  bed, 
we  can  look  across  the  impassable  gulf  to  that  haunted  fairy- 
land which  we  shall  never  more  approach,  and  never  more 
forget ! 

In  memory  I  can  go  back  to  a  very  early  age.  I  per- 
fectly remember  being  sung  to  sleep,  and  can  remember 
even  the  time  which  was  sang  to  me,  —  blessings  on  the 
voice  that  sang  it !  I  was  an  affectionate,  but  not,  as  I  now 
think,  a  lovable  nor  an  attractive  child.  I  did  not,  like  the 
little  Mozart,  ask  of  every  one  around  me,  "  Do  you  love 
me  ?  "  The  instinctive  question  was,  rather,  "  Can  I  love 
you  ?  "  Yet  certainly  I  was  not  more  than  six  years  old 
when  I  suffered  from  the  fear  of  not  being  loved  where  I 
had  attached  myself,  and  from  the  idea  that  another  was 
preferred  before  me,  such  anguish  as  had  nearly  killed  me. 
Whether  those  around  me  regarded  it  as  a  fit  of  ill-temper, 
or  a  fit  of  illness,  I  do  not  know.  I  could  not  then  have 
given  a  name  to  the  pang  that  fevered  me.  I  knew  not  the 
cause,  but  never  forgot  the  suffering.  It  left  a  deeper 
impression  than  childish  passions  usually  do ;  and  the  recol- 
lection was  so  far  salutaiy,  that  in  after  life  I  guarded 
myself  against  the  approaches  of  that  hateful,  defoi-med, 
agonizing  thing  which  men  call  jealousy,  as  I  would  from 
an  attack  of  cramp  or  cholera.    If  such  self-knowledge  has 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD.  73 

not  saved  me  from  the  pain,  at  least  it  has  saved  me  from 
the  demoralizing  effects  of  the  passion,  by  a  wholesome 
teri'or,  and  even  a  sort  of  disgust. 

With  a  good  temper,  there  was  the  capacity  of  strong, 
deep,  sUent  resentment,  and  a  vindictive  spirit  of  rather  a 
peculiar  kind.  I  recollect  that  when  one  of  those  set  over 
me  inflicted  what  then  appeared  a  most  horrible  injury 
and  injustice,  the  thoughts  of  vengeance  haunted  my  fancy 
for  months ;  but  it  was  an  inverted  sort  of  vengeance. 
I  imagined  the  house  of  my  enemy  on  fire,  and  rushed 
through  the  flames  to  rescue  her.  She  was  drowning,  and 
I  leaped  into  the  deep  water  to  draw  her  forth.  She  was 
pining  in  prison,  and  I  forced  bars  and  bolts  to  deliver  her. 
If  this  were  magnanimity,  it  was  not  the  less  vengeance ; 
for,  observe,  I  always  fancied  evil,  and  shame,  and  humilia- 
tion to  my  adversary ;  to  myself  the  role  of  superiority  and 
gratified  pride.  For  several  years  this  sort  of  burning  re- 
sentment against  wrong  done  to  myself  and  others,  though  it 
took  no  mean  or  cruel  form,  was  a  source  of  intense,  untold 
sufiering.  •  No  one  was  aware  of  it.  I  was  left  to  settle  it ; 
and  my  mind  righted  itself  I  hardly  know  how ;  not  cer- 
tainly by  religious  mfluences,  —  they  passed  over  my  mind, 
and  did  not  at  the  time  sink  into  it,  —  and  as  for  earthly 
counsel  or  comfort,  I  never  had  either  when  most  needed. 
And  as  it  fared  with  me  then,  so  it  has  been  in  after  life  ;  so 
it  has  been,  must  be,  with  all  those  who,  in  fighting  out  alone 
the  pitched  battle  between  principle  and  passion,  will  accept 
no  intervention  between  the  infinite  within  them  and  the 
infinite  above  them  ;  so  it  has  been,  must  be,  with  all  strong 
natures.  Will  it  be  said,  that  victory  in  the  struggle  brings 
increase  of  strength  ?  It  may  be  so  with  some  who  survive 
the  contest ;  but  then,  how  many  sink !  how  many  are  crip- 
pled morally  for  fife  !  how  many,  strengthened  in  some  par- 
ticular faculties,  suffer  in  losing  the  harmony  of  the  char- 
acter as  a  whole  !     This  is  one  of  the  points  in  which  the 


74  MRS.  JAMESON. 

matured  mind  may  help  the  childish  nature  at  strife  with 
itself.  It  is  impossible  to  say  how  far  this  sort  of  vindictive- 
ness  might  have  penetrated  and  hardened  into  the  char- 
acter, if  I  had  been  of  a  timid  or  retiring  nature.  It  was 
expelled  at  last  by  no  outer  influences,  but  by  a  gi'owing 
sense  of  power  and  self-reliance. 

In  regard  to  truth  —  always  such  a  diflSculty  in  education 
—  I  certainly  had,  as  a  child,  and  like  most  children,  con- 
fused ideas  about  it.  I  had  a  more  distinct  and  absolute 
idea  of  honor  than  of  truth,  —  a  mistake  into  whicli  our 
conventional  morality  leads  those  who  educate  and  those 
who  are  educated.  I  knew  very  well,  in  a  general  way, 
that  to  tell  a  lie  was  wicked;  to  lie  for  my  own  profit  or 
pleasure,  or  to  the  hurt  of  others,  was,  according  to  my 
infant  code  of  morals,  worse  than  wicked,  —  it  was  dishonor' 
able.  But  I  had  no  compunction  about  telling  fictions ; 
inventing  scenes  and  circumstances  which  I  related  as  real, 
and  with  a  keen  sense  of  triumphant  enjoyment  in  seeing 
the  listener  taken  in  by  a  most  artful  and  ingenious  concate- 
nation of  impossibilities.  In  this  respect  "  Ferdinand  Men- 
dez  Pinto,  that  liar  of  the  first  magnitude,"  was  nothing  in 
comparison  to  me.  I  must  have  been  twelve  years  old 
before  my  conscience  was  first  awakened  up  to  a  sense  of 
the  necessity  of  truth  as  a  principle,  as  well  as  its  holiness 
as  a  virtue.  Afterwards,  having  to  set  right  the  minds  of 
othei-s  cleared  my  own  mind  on  this  and  some  other  impor- 
tant points. 

I  do  not  think  I  was  naturally  obstinate,  but  remember 
going  without  food  all  day,  and  being  sent  hungry  and 
exhausted  to  bed,  because  I  would  not  do  some  trifling 
thing  required  of  me.  I  think  it  was  to  recite  some  lines 
I  knew  by  heart.  I  was  punished  as  wilfuUy  obstinate ; 
but  what  no  one  knew  then,  and  what  I  know  now  as  the 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD.  75 

fact,  was,  tliat  after  refusing  to  do  what  was  require  i,  and 
bearing  anger  and  tlireats  in  consequence,  I  lost  the  power 
to  do  it.  I  became  stone :  the  will  was  petrified,  and  I 
absolutely  could  not  comply.  They  might  have  hacked  me 
in  pieces  before  my  lips  could  have  unclosed  to  utterance. 
The  obstinacy  was  not  in  the  mind,  but  on  the  nerves  ;  and 
I  am  persuaded  that  what  we  call  obstinacy  in  children, 
and  grown-up  people  too,  is  often  something  of  tliis  kind, 
and  that  it  may  be  increased  by  mismanagement,  by  per- 
sistence, or  what  is  called  firmness  in  the  controlling  power, 
into  disease,  or  something  near  to  it. 

There  was  in  my  childish  mind  another  cause  of  sufier- 
ing  besides  those  I  have  mentioned,  less  acute,  but  more 
permanent,  and  always  .unacknowledged.  It  was  fear, — 
fear  of  darkness  and  supernatural  influences.  As  long  as 
I  can  remember  anything,  I  remember  these  horrors  of  my 
infancy.  How  they  had  been  awakened  I  do  not  know; 
they  were  never^  revealed.  I  had  heard  other  children 
ridiculed  for  such  fears,  and  held  my  peace.  At  firet  these 
haunting,  tlirilling,  stifling  terrors  were  vague  ;  afterwards 
the  form  varied ;  but  one  of  the  most  pennanent  was  the 
ghost  in  Hamlet.  There  was  a  volume  of  Shakespeare 
lying  about,  in  which  was  an  engraving  I  hr.ve  not  seen 
since,  but  it  remains  distinct  in  my  mind  as  a  picture.  On 
one  side  stood  Hamlet  with  his  hair  on  end,  literally  "  like 
quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine,"  and  one  hand  with  all 
the  fingers  outspread.  On  the  other  strided  the  ghost, 
encased  in  annor  with  nodding  plumes ;  one  finger  point- 
ing forwards,  and  all  surrounded  with  a  supernatural  light. 

0  that  spectre !  for  tliree  years  it  followed  me  up  and 
down  the  dark  staircase,  or  stood  by  my  bed :  only  the 
blessed  light  had  power  to  exorcise  it.     How  it  was  that 

1  knew,  while  I  trembled  and  quaked,  that  it  was  unreal, 
never  cried  cut,  never  expostulated,  never  confessed,  I  do 


76  MRS.  JAMESON. 

not  know.  The  figure  of  ApoUyon  looming  over  Cliristiiin, 
which  I  had  found  in  an  old  edition  of  the  '•  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  was  also  a  great  torment.  But  worse,  perhaps, 
were  certain  phantasms  without  shape,  —  things  hke  the 
vision  in  Job,  —  "A  spirit  passed  before  my  face  ;  it  stood 
still,  lilt  I  could  not  discern  the  form  thereof" :  —  and  if 
not  intelligible  voices,  there  were  strange,  unaccountable 
sounds  filling  the  air  around  vnth.  a  sort  of  mysterious  life. 
Li  daylight  I  was  not  only  fearless,  but  audacious,  inclined 
to  defy  all  power  and  brave  all  danger,  —  that  is,  aU  danger 
I  could  see.  I  remember  volunteering  to  lead  the  way 
through  a  herd  of  cattle  (among  which  was  a  dangerous 
bull,  the  terror  of  the  neighborhood)  anned  only  with  a 
little  stick ;  but  firet  I  said  the  Lord's  Prayer  fervently. 
In  the  gliastly  night  I  never  prayed ;  terror  stifled  prayer. 
These  visionaiy  sufierings,  in  some  form  or  other,  pui-sued 
me  till  I  was  nearly  twelve  yeai-s  old.  If  I  had  not  pos- 
sessed a  strong  constitution  and  a  sti'ong  understanding, 
wliich  rejected  and  contemned  my  own  fears,  even  while 
they  shook  me,  I  had  been  destroyed.  How  much  weaker 
children  suffer  in  this  way  I  have  since  known,  and  have 
knowTi  how  to  bring  them  help  and  strength,  thi-ough  sym- 
pathy and  knowledge,  —  the  sympathy  that  soothes,  and 
does  not  encourage,  the  knowledge  that  dispels,  and  does 
not  suggest,  the  evU. 

Peoi)le,  in  general,  even  those  who  have  been  much  in- 
terested in  education,  are  not  aware  of  the  sacred  duty  of 
truth,  exact  truth  in  their  intercourse  with  children.  Limit 
what  you  tell  them  according  to  the  measure  of  their  fac- 
ulties ;  but  let  what  you  say  be  the  truth.  Accuracy,  not 
merely  as  to  fact,  but  well-considered  accui-acy  in  the  use 
of  words,  is  essential  with  children.  I  have  read  some 
wise  book  on  the  treatment  of  the  insane,  in  which  absolute 
veracit}'  and  accuracy  in  speaking  is  prescribed  as  a  cura- 
tive principle ;  and  deception  for  any  purpose  is  deprecated 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD.  77 

as  almost  fatal  to  the  health  of  the  patient.  Now,  it  is  a 
good  sanitary  principle,  that  what  is  curative  is  preventive ; 
and  that  an  unhealthy  state  of  mind,  leading  to  madness, 
may,  in  some  organizations,  be  induced  by  that  sort  of 
uncertainty  and  perplexity  which  grows  up  where  the  mind 
has  not  been  accustomed  to  truth  in  its  external  relations. 
It  is  like  breathing  for  a  continuance  an  impure  or  con- 
fined air. 

Of  the  mischief  that  may  be  done  to  a  childish  mind  by 
a  falsehood  uttered  in  thoughtless  gayety,  I  remember  an 
absurd  and  yet  a  painful  instance.  A  visitor  was  turning 
over,  for  a  little  girl,  some  prints,  one  of  which  represented 
an  Indian  widow  springing  into  the  fire  kindled  for  the 
funeral  pile  of  her  husband.  It  was  thus  explained  to 
the  child,  who  asked,  innocently,  whether,  if  her  father 
died  her  mother  would  be  burned  ?  The  person  to  whom 
the  question  was  addressed,  a  lively,  amiable  woman,  was 
probably  much  amused  by  the  question,  and  answered 
giddily,  "  O,  of  "Course, —  certainly!"  and  was  believed 
implicitly.  But  tli^nceforth,  for  many  weary  months,  the 
mind  of  that  child  was  haunted  and  tortured  by  the  image 
of  her  mother  springing  into  the  devouring  flames,  and 
consumed  by  fire,  with  all  the  accessories  of  the  picture, 
particularly  the  drums  beating  to  drown  her  cries.  In  a 
weaker  organization,  the  results  might  have  been  perma- 
nent and  serious.     But  to  proceed. 

These  terrors  I  have  described  had  an  existence  ex- 
ternal to  myself:  I  had  no  power  over  them  to  shape 
them  by  my  wUl,  and  their  power  over  me  vanished 
gradually  before  a  more  dangerous  infatuation,  —  the  pro- 
pensity to  reverie.  The  shaping  spirit  of  imagination  be- 
gan when  I  was  about  eight  or  nine  years  old  to  haunl 
my  inner  life.  I  can  truly  say  that,  from  ten  years  old  to 
fourteen  or  fifteen,  I  lived  a  double  existence ;  one  out- 
ward, linking  me  with  the  external  sensible  world,   the 


78  MRS.  JAMESON. 

other  inward,  creating  a  world  to  and  for  itself,  conscious 
to  itself  only.  I  can-ied  on  for  whole  years  a  series  of 
actions,  scenes,  and  adventures ;  one  springing  out  of  an- 
other, and  colored  and  modified  by  increasing  knowledge. 
This  habit  gi'ew  so  upon  me,  that  there  were  moments  — 
as  when  I  came  to  some  crisis  in  my  imaginary  adven- 
tures—when I  was  not  more  awake  to  outward  things 
than  in  sleep,  —  scarcely  took  cognizance  of  the  beings 
around  me.  When  punished  for  idleness  by  being  placed 
in  solitary  confinement  (the  worst  of  all  punishments  for 
cliildren),  the  intended  penance  was  nothing  less  than  a 
delight  and  an  emancipation,  giving  me  up  to  my  dreams. 
I  had  a  very  strict  and  very  accomplished  governess,  one 
of  the  cleverest  women  I  have  ever  met  with  in  my  life ; 
bnt  nothing  of  this  was  known  or  even  suspected  by  her, 
and  I  exulted  in  possessing  something  which  her  power 
could  not  reach.  My  reveries  were  my  real  life :  it  was 
an  unhealthy  state  of  things. 

Those  who  are  engaged  in  the  training  of  children  will 
perhaps  pause  here.  It  may  be  said,  in  the  first  place, 
How  are  we  to  reach  those  recesses  of  the  inner  life 
which  the  God  who  made  us  keeps  from  every  eye  but  his 
own  ?  As  when  we  walk  over  the  field  in  spring  we  are 
aware  of  a  thousand  influences  and  processes  at  work  of 
which  we  have  no  exact  knowledge  or  clear  perception, 
yet  must  watch  and  use  according,  —  so  it  is  with  educa- 
tion. And,  secondly,  it  may  be  asked,  if  such  secret  pro- 
cesses be  working  unconscious  miscliief,  where  the  remedy  ? 
The  remedy  is  in  employment.  Then  the  mother  or  the 
teacher  echoes,  with  astonishment,  "  Employment !  the  child 
is  employed  from  morning  tUl  night ;  she  is  learning  a 
dozen  sciences  and  languages ;  she  has  masters  and  lesson? 
for  every  hour  of  every  day ;  with  her  pencil,  her  piano, 
her  books,  her  companions,  her  birds,  her  flowers,  —  what 
can  she  want  more  ?  "    An  energetic  child  even  at  a  very 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD.  79 

early  age,  aiid  yet  further  as  the  physical  organization  is 
developed,  wants  something  more  and  something  better; 
employment  which  shall  bring  with  it  the  bond  of  a  higher 
duty  than  that  which  centres  in  self  and  self-improvement ; 
employment  which  shall  not  merely  cultivate  the  imder- 
standing,  but  strengthen  and  elevate  the  conscience ;  em- 
ployment for  the  higher  and  more  generous  faculties ; 
employment  addressed  to  the  sympathies ;  employment 
which  has  the  aim  of  utihty,  not  pretended,  but  real,  ob- 
vious, direct  utility.  A  girl  who  as  a  mere  child  is  not 
always  being  taught  or  being  amused,  whose  mind  is  early 
restrained  by  the  bond  of  definite  duty,  and  thrown  out  of 
the  limit  of  self,  wiU  not  in  after  years  be  subject  to  fancies 
that  disturb  or  to  reveries  that  absorb,  and  the  present  and 
the  actual  will  have  that  power  they  ought  to  have  as  com- 
bined in  due  degree  with  desu-e  and  anticipation. 

The  Roman  Catholic  priesthood  understand  this  weU 
employment,  which  enlists  with  the  spiritual  the  sympa- 
thetic part  of  our  being,  is  a  means  through  which  they 
guide  both  young  and  adult  minds.  Physicians  who  have 
to  manage  various  %tates  of  mental  and  moral  disease  un- 
deretand  this  well ;  they  speak  of  the  necessity  of  employ- 
ment (not  mere  amusement)  as  a  curative  means,  but  of 
employment  with  the  direct  aim  of  usefulness,  apprehended 
and  appreciated  by  the  patient,  else  it  is  notliing.  It  is 
the  same  with  children.  Such  employment,  chosen  with 
reference  to  utility,  and  in  harmony  with  the  faculties, 
would  prove  in  many  cases  either  preventive  or  curatire. 
In  my  o\vn  case,  as  I  now  think,  it  would  have  been  both. 

There  was  a  time  when  it  was  thought  essential  that 
women  should  know  something  of  cookery,  something  of 
medicine,  something  of  surgery.  If  all  these  things  are 
far  better  understood  now  than  heretofore,  is  that  a  reason 
why  a  well-educated  woman  should  be  left  wholly  ignorant 
of  them  ?     A  knowledge  of  what  people  call  "  common 


80  MRS.  JAMESON. 

things,"  —  of  the  elements  of  physiology,  of  the  conditions 
of  health,  of  the  qualities,  nutritive  or  remedial,  of  sub- 
stances commonly  used  as  food  or  medicine,  and  the  most 
economical  and  the  most  beneficial  way  of  applying  both,  — 
these  should  form  a  part  of  the  system  of  every  girls' 
school,  —  whether  for  the  higher  or  the  lower  classes.  At 
present  you  shall  see  a  girl  studying  chemistry,  and  attend- 
ing Fai'aday's  lectures,  who  would  be  puzzled  to  compound 
a  rice-pudding  or  a  cup  of  barley-water:  and  a  girl  who 
could  work  quickly  a  complicated  sum  in  the  Rule  of  Three, 
afterwards  wasting  a  fourth  of  her  husband's  wages  through 
want  of  management. 

In  my  own  case,  how  much  of  the  practical  and  sympa- 
thetic in  my  nature  was  exhausted  in  airy  visions ! 

As  to  the  stuff  out  of  which  my  waking  dreams  were 
composed,  I  cannot  tell  you  much.  I  have  a  remembrance 
that  I  was  always  a  princess  heroine  in  the  disguise  of  a 
knight,  a  sort  of  Clorinda  or  Britomart,  going  about  to  re- 
dress the  wrongs  of  the  poor,  fight  giants  and  kiU  dragons ; 
or  founding  a  society  in  some  far-off  solitude  or  desolate 
island,  which  would  have  rivalled  that  of  Gonsalez,  where 
there  were  to  be  no  tears,  no  tasks,  and  no  laws,  —  except 
those  which  I  made  myself,  —  no  caged  birds  nor  tormented 
kittens. 

Enough  of  the  pains,  and  mistakes,  and  vagaries  of 
childhood ;  let  me  teU  of  some  of  its  pleasures  equally  un- 
guessed  and  unexpressed.  A  great,  an  exquisite  source  of 
enjoyment  arose  out  of  an  early,  instinctive,  boundless  de 
light  in  external  beauty.  How  this  went  hand  in  hand  with 
my  terrore  and  reveries,  how  it  could  coexist  with  them,  I 
cannot  teU  now  —  it  was  so ;  and  if  this  sympathy  with  the 
external,  hving,  beautiful  world  had  been  properly,  scien- 
tifically cultivated,  and  directed  to  useful  definite  purposes, 
it  would  have  been  the  best  remedy  for  much  that  was  mor- 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD.  81 

bid  ;  this  was  not  the  case,  and  we  were,  unhappily  for  me, 
too  early  removed  from  the  country  to  a  town  residence.  I 
can  remember,  however,  that  in  very  early  years  the  appear- 
ances of  nature  did  truly  "  haunt  me  like  a  passion " ;  the 
stars  were  to  me  as  the  gates  of  heaven ;  the  rolling  of  the 
wave  to  the  shore ;  the  graceful  weeds  and  grasses  bending 
before  the  breeze  as  they  grew  by  the  wayside  ;  the  minute 
and  delicate  forms  of  insects ;  the  trembling  shadows  of 
bouglis  and  leaves  dancing  on  the  ground  in  the  highest 
noon ;  —  these  were  to  me  perfect  pleasures,  of  which  the 
imagery  now  in  my  mind  is  distinct.  Wordsworth's  poem 
of  "  The  Daffodils,"  —  the  one  beginning 

"  I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud,"  — 

may  appear  to  some  imintelhgible  or  overcharged,  but  to  me 
it  was  a  vivid  truth,  a  simple  fact ;  and  if  Wordsworth  had 
been  then  in  my  hands,  I  think  I  must  have  loved  him.  It 
was  this  intense  sense  of  beauty  which  gave  the  fii'st  zest  to 
poetry :  I  loved  it,  not  because  it  told  me  what  I  did  not 
know,  but  because  jt  helped  me  to  words  in  which  to  clothe 
my  own  knowledge  and  perceptions,  and  reflected  back  the 
pictures  unconsciously  hoarded  up  in  my  mind.  This  was 
what  made  Thomson's  "  Seasons  "  a  favorite  book  when  I 
fii'st  began  to  read  for  my  own  amusement,  and  before  I 
could  understand  one  half  of  it ;  St.  Pierre's  "  Indian  Cot- 
tage "  ("  La  Chaumiere  Indienne ")  was  also  charming, 
either  because  it  reflected  my  dreams,  or  gave  me  new  stuff 
for  tlTem  in  pictures  of  an  external  world  quite  different 
from  that  I  inhabited,  —  palm-trees,  elephants,  tigers,  dark- 
turbaned  men  with  flowing  di-aperies ;  and  the  "  Arabian 
Nights  "  completed  my  Oriental  intoxication,  which  lasted 
for  a  long  time. 

I  have  said  little  of  the  impressions  left  by  books,  and  of 
my  first  religious  notions.     A  friend  of  mine  had  once  the 
wise  idea  of  collecting  together  a  variety  of  evidence  as  to 
6 


82  MKS.  JAMESON. 

the  impressions  left  by  certain  books  on  childish  or  immar 
ture  minds.  If  carried  out,  it  would  have  been  one  of  the 
most  valuable  additions  to  educational  experience  ever  made. 
For  myself,  I  did  not  much  care  about  the  books  put  into 
my  hands,  nor  imbibe  much  information  from  them.  I  had 
a  great  taste,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  for  forbidden  books ;  yet  it 
was  not  the  forbidden  books  that  did  the  mischief,  except  in 
their  being  read  furtively.  I  remember  impressions  of  vice 
and  cruelty  from  some  parts  of  the  Old  Testament  and 
Goldsmith's  "  History  of  England,"  which  I  shudder  to  re- 
call. Shakespeare  was  on  the  forbidden  shelf.  I  had  read 
him  all  through  between  seven  and  ten  years  old.  He 
never  did  me  any  moral  mischief.  He  never  soiled  my 
mind  with  any  disordered  image.  "What  was  exceptionable 
and  coarse  in  language  I  passed  by  without  attaching  any 
meaning  whatever  to  it.  How  it  might  have  been  if  I  had 
read  Shakespeare  first  when  I  was  fifteen  or  sixteen,  I  do 
not  know;  perhaps  the  occasional  coarseness  and  obscuri- 
ties might  have  shocked  the  delicacy  or  puzzled  the  intelli- 
gence of  that  sensitive  and  inquiring  age.  But  at  nine  or 
ten  I  had  no  comprehension  of  what  was  unseemly ;  what 
might  be  obscure  in  words  to  wbrdy  commentators,  was  to 
me  Hghted  up  by  the  idea  I  found  or  interpreted  for  myself, 
—  right  or  wrong. 

No ;  I  repeat,  Shakespeare' —  bless  him  !  —  never  did  me 
any  moral  mischief.  Though  the  "Witches  in  Macbeth 
troubled  me,  —  though  the  Ghost  in  Hamlet  terrified  me 
(the  picture,  that  is,  —  for  the  spirit  in  Shakespeare  was  sol- 
emn and  pathetic,  not  hideous),  —  though  poor  little  Ai-thur 
cost  me  an  ocean  of  tears,  —  yet  much  that  was  obscure, 
and  all  that  was  painful  and  revolting,  was  merged  on  the 
whole  in  the  vivid  presence  of  a  new,  beautiful,  vigorous 
living  world.  The  plays  which  I  now  tliink  the  most  won- 
derful produced  comparatively  little  effect  on  my  fancy :  Ro- 
me >  and  Juliet,  Othello,  ]VIacbeth,  stmck  me  then  less  than 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD.  83 

tli(i  historical  plays,  and  far  less  than  the  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream  and  Cymbeline.  It  may  be  thought,  per- 
haps, that  Falstaff  is  not  a  character  to  strike  a  child,  or  to 
be  understood  by  a  child  :  —  no  ;  surely  not.  To  me  Fal- 
staff was  not  witty  and  wicked,  —  only  irresistibly  fat  and 
funny ;  and  I  remember  lying  on  the  ground  rolling  with 
laughter  over  some  of  the  scenes  in  Henry  the  Fourth,  — 
the  mock  play,  and  the  seven  men  in  buckram.  But  the 
Tempest  and  Cymbeline  were  the  plays  I  liked  best  and 
knew  best. 

Altogether,  I  should  say  that  in  my  early  years  books 
were  known  to  me,  not  as  such,  not  for  their  general  con- 
tents, but  for  some  especial  image  or  picture  I  had  picked 
out  of  them  and  assimilated  to  my  own  mind  and  mixed  up 
with  my  own  life.  For  example,  out  of  Homer's  Odyssey 
(lent  to  me  by  the  parish  clerk)  I  had  the  picture  of  Nasi- 
caa  and  her  maidens  going  down  in  their  chariots  to  wash 
their  linen :  so  that  when  the  first  time  I  went  to  the  Pitti 
Palace,  and  coul^  hardly  see  the  pictures  through  blinding 
tears,  I  saw  that  picture  of  Rubens,  which  all  remember 
who  have  been  at  Florence,  and  it  flashed  delight  and  re- 
freshment through  those  remembered  cliildish  associations. 
The  Sirens  and  Polypheme  left  also  vivid  pictures  on  my 
fancy.  The  Hiad,  on  the  contrary,  wearied  me,  except  the 
parting  of  Plector  and  Andromache,  in  which  the  cliild, 
scared  by  its  father's  dazzling  helm  and  nodding  crest,  re- 
mains a  vivid  image  in  my  mind  from  that  time. 

The  same  parish  clerk  —  a  curious  fellow  in  his  way  — 
lent  me  also  some  religious  tracts  and  stories,  by  Hannah 
More.  It  Ls  most  certain  that  more  moral  mischief  was  done 
to  me  by  some  of  these  than  by  all  Shakespeare's  plays  to- 
gether. Tliese  so-called  pidus  tracts  first  introduced  me  to  a 
knowledge  of  the  vices  of  vulgar  life  and  the  excitements  of 
a  vulgar  religion,  —  the  fear  of  being  hanged  and  the  fear 
of  hell  became  co(!xistent  in  my  mind ;  and  the  teaching 


84  MRS.  JAJIESON. 

resolved  itself  into  this,  —  that  it  was  not  by  being  naughty, 
but  by  being  foiuid  out,  that  I  was  to  incur  the  risk  of  both. 
My  fairy  world  was  better ! 

About  reh'gion  ;  —  I  was  taught  religion  as  children  used 
to  be  taught  it  in  my  younger  days,  and  are  taught  it  still  in 
some  cases,  I  believe,  —  through  the  medium  of  creeds  and 
catechisms.  I  read  the  Bible  too  eai'ly,  and  too  indiscrim- 
inately, and  too  irreverently.  Even  the  New  Testament 
was  too  early  placed  in  my  hands  ;  too  early  made  a  lesson- 
book,  as  the  custom  then  was.  The  letter  of  the  Scriptures 
—  the  words  —  were  familiarized  to  me  by  sermonizing  and 
dogmatizing,  long  before  I  could  enter  into  the  spirit.  ]Mean- 
time,  happily,  another  religion  was  growing  up  in  my  heart, 
which,  strangely  enough,  seemed  to  me  quite  apart  from  that 
which  was  taught,  —  which,  indeed,  I  never  in  any  way 
regarded  as  the  same  which  I  was  taught  when  I  stood  up 
wearily  on  a  Sunday  to  repeat  the  collect  and  say  the  cate- 
chism. It  was  quite  another  thing.  Not  only  the  taught 
religion  and  the  sentiment  of  faith  and  adoration  were  never 
combined,  but  it  never  for  years  entered  into  my  head  to 
combine  them  ;  the  first  remained  extraneous,  the  latter  had 
gradually  taken  root  in  my  life,  even  from  the  moment  my 
mother  joined  my  little  hands  in  prayer.  The  histories  out 
of  the  Bible  (the  Parables  especially)  were,  however,  en- 
chanting to  me,  though  my  interpretation  of  them  was  in 
some  instances  the  very  reverse  of  correct  or  orthodox.  To 
my  infant  conception  our  Lord  was  a  being  who  had  come 
down  from  heaven  to  make  people  good,  and  to  tell  them 
beautiful  stories.  And  though  no  pains  were  spared  to 
indoctrinate  me,  and  all  my  pastors  and  masters  took  it  for 
granted  that  my  ideas  were  quite  satisfactory,  nothing  could 
be  more  confused  and  heterodox. 

It  is  a  common  observation  that  girls  of  lively  talents  are 
apt  to  grow  pert  and  satirical.     I  fell  into  this  danger  when 


A  REVELATION  OF  CHILDHOOD.  85 

about  ten  years  old.  Sallies  at  the  expense  of  certain  peo- 
ple, ill-looking,  or  ill-dressed,  or  ridiculous,  or  foolish,  had 
been  laughed  at  and  applauded  in  company,  untU,  without 
being  naturally  malignant,  I  ran  some  risk  of  becoming  so 
from  sheer  vanity. 

The  fables  which  appeal  to  our  higher  moral  sympathies 
may  sometimes  do  as  much  for  us  as  the  truths  of  science. 
So  thought  our  Saviour  when  he  taught  the  multitude  in 
parables. 

A  good  clergyman  who  lived  near  us,  a  famous  Persian 
scholar,  took  it  into  his  head  to  teach  me  Persian,  (I  was 
then  about  seven  years  old,)  and  I  set  to  work  with  infinite 
delight  and  earnestness.  All  I  learned  was  soon  forgotten ; 
but  a  few  years  afterwards,  happening  to  stumble  on  a 
voliune  of  Sir  William  Jones's  works,  —  his  Persian  gram- 
mar, —  it  revived  my  Orientalism,  and  I  began  to  study  it 
eagerly.  Among  the  exercises  given  was  a  Persian  fable 
or  poem,  — :  one  of  those  traditions  of  our  Lord  which  are 
preserved  in  the  East.  The  beautiful  apologue  of  "  St. 
Peter  and  the  Chetries,"  which  Goethe  has  versified  or 
imitated,  is  a  well-loiown  example.  This  fable  I  allude  to 
was  something  similar,  but  I  have  not  met  with  the  original 
these  forty  years,  and  must  give  it  here  from  memory. 

"Jesus,"  says  the  story,  "arrived  one  evening  at  the 
gates  of  a  certain  city,  and  he  sent  liis  disciples  forward  to 
prepare  supper,  while  he  himself,  intent  on  doing  good, 
walked  through  the  streets  into  the  market-place. 

"  And  he  saw  at  the  comer  of  the  market  some  people 
gathered  together  looking  at  an  object  on  the  ground ;  and 
he  drew  near  to  see  what  it  might  be.  It  was  a  dead  dog, 
with  a  halter  round  his  neck,  by  which  he  appeared  to  have 
been  di-agged  through  the  dirt ;  and  a  viler,  a  more  abject, 
a  more  unclean  tiling  never  met  the  eyes  of  man. 

"  And  those  who  stood  by  looked  on  with  abhorrence. 


«6  MRS.  JAMESON. 

" '  Faugh ! '  said  one,  stopping  his  nose  ;  *  it  pollutes  thcv 
air.'  '  How  long,'  said  another,  '  shall  this  foul  beast  offend 
our  sight  ? '  '  Look  at  his  torn  hide,'  gaid  a  third ;  '  one 
could  not  even  cut  a  shoe  out  of  it.'  *  And  his  ears,'  said  a 
fourth,  '  all  draggled  and  bleeding ! '  '  No  doubt,'  said  a 
fifth,  '  he  hath  been  hanged  for  thieving ! ' 

"  And  Jesus  heard  them,  and  looking  doAvn  compas- 
sionately on  the  dead  creature,  he  said,  *  Pearls  are  not 
equal  to  the  whiteness  of  his  teeth ! ' 

"  Then  the  people  turned  towards  him  with  amazement, 
and  said  among  themselves,  *  Who  is  this  ?  this  must  be 
Jesus  of  Nazareth,  for  only  He  could  find  something  to  pity 
and  approve  even  in  a  dead  dog ' ;  and  being  ashamed,  they 
bowed  their  heads  before  him,  and  went  each  on  his  way." 

I  can  recall,  at  this  hour,  the  vivid,  yet  softening  and 
pathetic  impression  left  on  my  fancy  by  this  old  Eastern 
story. .  It  struck  me  as  exquisitely  humorous,  as  well  as 
exquisitely  beautiful.  It  gave  me  a  pain  in  my  conscience, 
for  it  seemed  thenceforward  so  easy  and  so  vulgar  to  say 
satirical  things,  and  so  much  nobler  to  be  benign  and 
merciful,  and  I  took  the  lesson  so  home,  that  I  was  in  great 
danger  of  falling  into  the  opposite  extreme,  —  of  seeking 
the  beautiful  even  in  the  midst  of  the  corrupt  and  the 
repulsive.  Pity,  a  large  element  in  my  composition,  might 
have  easUy  degenerated  into  weakness,  threatening  to  sub- 
vert hatred  of  evil  in  trying  to  find  excuses  for  it ;  and 
whether  my  mind  has  ever  completely  righted  itself,  I  am 
not  sure. 

Educators  are  not  always  aware,  I  think,  how  acute  are 
the  perceptions,  and  how  permanent  the  memories  of  chil- 
dren. I  remember  experiments  tried  upon  my  temper  and 
feelings,  and  how  I  was  made  aware  of  this,  by  their  being 
repeated,  and,  in  some  instances,  spoken  of,  before  me. 
Music,  to  which  I  was  early  and  peculiarly  sensitive,  was 


A  EKVELATION  OF   CHILDHOOD.  87 

sometimes  made  the  medium  of  these  experiments.  Dis- 
cordant sounds  Avere  not  only  hateful,  but  made  me  turn 
white  and  cold,  and  sent  the  blood  backward  to  my  heart ; 
and  certain  tunes  had  a  curious  eflfect,  I  cannot  now  ac- 
count for :  for  though,  when  heard  for  the  first  time,  they 
had  little  effect,  they  became  intolerable  by  repetition  ;  they 
turned  up  some  liidden  emotion  within  me  too  strong  to  be 
borne.  It  could  not  have  been  from  association,  which  I 
believe  to  be  a  principal  element  in  the  emotion  excited  by 
music.  I  was  too  young  for  that.  "What  associations  could 
such  a  baby  have  had  with  pleasure  or  with  pain  ?  Or 
could  it  be  possible  that  associations  with  some  former  state 
of  existence  awoke  up  to  sound  ?  That  our  life  "  hath 
elsewhere  its  beginning,  and  cometh  from  afar,"  is  a  belief, 
or  at  least  an  instinct,  in  some  minds,  wliich  music,  and  only 
music,  seems  to  tluill  into  consciousness.  At  this  time, 
when  I  was  about  five  or  six  years  old,  Mrs.  Arkwright,  — 
she  was  then  Fanny  Kemble,  —  used  to  come  to  our  house, 
and  used  to  entrance  me  with  her  singing.  I  had  a  sort  of 
adoration  for  her,  suf  h  as  an  ecstatic  votary  might  have  for 
a  Saint  Cecilia.  I  trembled  with  pleasure,  when  I  only 
heard  her  step.  But  her  voice  !  —  it  has  charmed  hundreds 
since ;  whom  has  it  ever  moved  to  a  more  genuine  passion 
of  delight  than  the  little  child  that  crept  silent  and  tremu- 
lous to  her  side  ?  And  she  was  fond  of  me,  —  fond  of  sing- 
ing to  me,  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  fond  also  of  playing 
these  experiments  on  me.  The  music  of  "  Paul  and  Vir- 
ginia "  was  then  in  vogue,  and  there  was  one  air  —  a  very 
simple  air  —  in  that  opera,  which,  after  the  first  few  bars, 
always  made  me  stop  my  ears  and  rush  out  of  the  room. 
I  became  at  last  aware  that  this  was  sometimes  done  by 
particular  desire  to  please  my  parents,  or  amuse  and  inter- 
est others  by  the  display  of  such  vehement  emotion.  My 
infant  conscience  became  perplexed  between  the  reality  of 
the  feeling  and  the  exhibition  of  it.     People  are  not  always 


88  MES.  JAMESON. 

aware  of  the  injury  done  to  children  by  repeating  before 
them  things  they  say,  or  describiag  things  they  do :  words 
and  actions,  spontaneous  and  imconscious,  become  thence- 
forth artificial  and  conscious.  I  can  speak  of  the  injury 
done  to  myself,  between  five  and  eight  years  old.  There 
was  some  danger  of  my  becoming  a  precocious  actress, — 
danger  of  permanent  mischief  such  as  I  have  seen  done  to 
other  cliildren,  —  but  I  was  saved  by  the  recoil  of  resistance 
and  resentment  excited  in  my  mind. 

This  is  enough.    All  that  has  been  told  here  refers  to  a 
period  between  five  and  ten  years  old. 


M4-^*^# 


TO  MONTAGUE, 

AT  THIKTT-THREE. 

By  CHARLES   SPRAGUE. 

ONO,  I  'U  not  forget  the  day,  — 
It  claims,  at  least,  a  hallowed  hour, 
A  sparkling  cup,  an  honest  lay, 

Sacred  to  Friendship's  soothing  power. 

'T  is  not  all  ice,  this  heart  of  mine,  — 
One  throb  is  warm  and  youthful  still ; 

That  throb,  dear  Montague,  is  thine. 
Nor  age  noy  grief  that  throb  can  chiU. 

How  often  sung,  and  yet  how  sweet 

To  dwell  upon  the  days  of  old  ! 
Our  guiltless  pleasures  to  repeat. 

Ere  in  the  world  our  hearts  grew  cold ! 

Fond  memory  wakes  !  each  pulse  beats  high ; 

Like  some  sweet  tale  past  joys  come  o'er, 
The  years  of  ruin  backward  fly, 

And  I  am  young  and  gay  once  more. 

Friend  of  my  soul !  in  this  poor  verse 

Let  one  untutored  tribute  life  ; 
Here  let  my  tongue  my  love  rehearse  ; 

'T  is  all,  alas !  I  have  to  give 


90  CHARLES  SPRAGUE. 

0,  if  from  time's  wide-yawiiing  grave 
There 's  aught  of  mine  that  I  could  free, 

One  line  from  dull  oblivion  save, 

*T  would  be  the  line  that  tells  of  thee. 

Though  to  the  busy  world  unknown 
Each  noble  act  that  shrinks  from  fame, 

Goodness  its  favorite  son  shall  own, 
And  orphan  lips  shall  bless  his  name. 

Thou  'rt  the  small  stream,  that  silent  goes, 
By  earth's  cold,  plodding  crowd  unseen,  — 

Yet,  all  unnoticed  though  it  flows. 
Its  banks  are  clothed  in  living  green. 

We  met  in  that  bright,  sunny  time. 
When  every  scene  was  fresh  around, 

And  youth's  warm  hour  and  manliood's  prime 
Have  blessed  the  tie  that  boyhood  bound. 

Though  oft  of  valued  friends  bereft, 
I  bend,  submissive,  to  the  doom ; 

For  thou,  the  best,  the  best,  art  left. 
To  cheer  my  journey  to  the  tomb. 

And  now,  the  dear  ones  ot  our  race 
Have  come  to  live  our  pleasures  o'er ; 

A  lovely  troop,  to  fill  our  place. 

And  weep  for  us  when  we  're  no  more. 

Ever,  O  ever  may  they  keep 

The  holy  chain  of  friendship  bright, 

Till,  rich  in  all  tliat  's  good,  they  sleep 

With  us  through  death's  long,  dreamless  night. 


THE  MAN-HUNTER. 


Bt  BARRY  CORNWALL. 


IT  can  scarcely  be  more  than  eighteen  months  ago,  that 
two  Englishmen  met  together  unexpectedly  at  the  little 
town  or  city  of  Dessau.  The  elder  was  a  grave  person,  in 
no  way  remarkable;  but  the  younger  forced  observation 
upon  him.  He  was  a  tall,  gaunt,  bony  figure,  presenting  the 
relics  of  a  formidable  man,  but  seemingly  worn  with  travel 
and  oppressed  by  weighty  thoughts.  He  must  once  have 
been  handsome  ;  and  he  was  even  now  imposing.  But  pov- 
erty and  toil  are  sad  ^nemies  to  hiunan  beauty ;  and  he  had 
endured  both.  Nevertheless,  the  black  and  ragged  elf-locks 
which  feU  about  his  face  could  not  quite  conceal  its  noble 
proportions  ;  and,  although  his  cheek  was  ghastly  and  macer- 
ated, (perhaps  by  famine,)  there  was  a  wild,  deep-seated 
splendor  glowing  in  his  eye,  such  as  we  are  apt  to  ascribe 
to  the  poet  when  his  frenzy  is  full  upon  him,  or  to  the 
madman  when  he  dreams  of  vengeance. 

The  usual  salutations  of  friends  passed  between  them, 
and  they  conversed  for  a  short  time  on  indifferent  subjects  ; 
the  elder,  as  he  spoke,  scrutinizing  the  condition  of  his  ac- 
quaintance, and  the  other  glancing  about  from  time  to  time, 
with  restless,  watchful  eyes,  as  though  he  feared  some  one 
might  escape  his  observation,  or  else  might  detect  himself. 
The  name  of  the  elder  of  these  men  was  Denbigh :  that 
of  the  younger  has  not  reached  me.     We  wiU  call  him 


92  BARRY  CORNWALL. 

Gordon.  It  was  the  curiosity  of  the  first-mentioned  that, 
after  a  reasonable  period,  broke  out  into  inquiiy.  (They 
were  just  entering  the  pubhc  room  of  the  Black  Eagle  at 
Dessau.) 

"  But  what  has  brought  you  here  ? "  said  he.  "  I  left 
you  plodding  at  a  merchant's  desk,  with  barely  the  means 
of  living.  Though  a  friend,  you  would  never  let  me 
please  myself  by  lending  you  money ;  nor  would  you  be 
my  companion  down  the  Rhine,  some  three  years  ago. 
You  professed  to  hate  travelling.  Yet  I  find  you  here,  — 
a  traveller  evidently,  with  few  conaforts.  Come,  be  plain 
with  me.  Tell  me,  —  what  has  brought  you  hither  ?  Or 
rather  what  has  withered  and  wasted  you,  and  made  your 
hair  so  gray?    You  are  grown  quite  an  old  man." 

"  Ay,"  replied  Grordon ;  "  I  am  old,  as  you  say,  old 
enough.  Winter  is  upon  me,  on  my  head,  on  my  heart; 
both  are  frozen  up.  Do  you  wish  to  know  what  brought 
me  here  ?  "Well,  you  have  a  right  to  know ;  and  you  shall 
be  told.    You  shall  hear  —  a  tale." 

"  A  true  one  ?  "  inquired  Denbigh,  smilingly. 

"  True ! "  echoed  the  other ;  "  ay,  as  true  as  hell,  as 
dark,  as  damnable,  —  but  peace,  peace  ! "  said  he,  checking 
himself  for  a  moment,  and  then  proceeding  in  a  hoarse, 
whispering,  vehement  voice,  —  "all  that  in  time.  We  must 
begin  quietly,  —  quietly.  Come,  let  us  dxink  some  wine, 
and  you  shall  see  presently  what  a  calm  historian  I  am." 

Wine,  together  with  some  more  solid  refreshments,  were 
accordingly  ordered.  Grordon  did  not  taste  the  latter,  but 
swallowed  a  draught  or  two  of  the  bold  liquid,  which 
seemed  to  still  his  nerves  like  an  opiate.  He  composed 
himself,  and  indeed  appeared  disposed  to  forget  that  there 
was  such  a  thing  as  trouble  in  the  world,  until  the  impa- 
tience of  his  friend  (which  vented  itself  in  the  shape  of 
various  leading  questions)  induced  him  to  summon  up  his 
recollections.     He  compressed  his  lips  together  for  a  mo- 


THE  MAN-HUNTER.  93 

ment,  and  drew  a  short,  deep  breath,  through  his  mflated 
nostrils ;  but  otherwise  there  was  no  preface  or  introduction 
to  his  story,  which  commenced  nearly,  if  not  precisely,  in 
the  following  words  :  — 

"About  three  years  ago,  a  young  girl  was  brought  to 
one  of  those  charitable  institutions  in  the  neighborhood  of 
London,  where  the  wretched  (the  sinful  and  the  destitute) 
find  refuge  and  consolation.  She  was,  you  may  believe  me, 
beautiful ;  .so  beautiful,  so  delicate,  and,  as  I  have  said,  so 
young,  that  she  extorted  a  burst  of  pity  and  admiration 
from  people  long  inured  to  look  upon  calamity. 

"  She  was  attended  by  her  mother,  —  a  widow.  This 
woman  differed  from  her  child ;  not  merely  in  age  or 
feature.  She  was,  in  comparison,  masculine ;  her  face  was 
stem ;  her  frame  strong  and  enduring ;  she  looked  as 
though  hunger  and  shame  had  been  busy  with  her,  —  as 
though  she  had  survived  the  loss  of  all  things,  and  passed 
the  extreme  limits  of  human  woe.  Once  —  for  I  knew 
her — she  would  have  disdained  to  ask  even  for  pity.  0, 
what  she  must  have  borne,  in  body,  in  mind,  before  she 
could  have  brought  iierself  to  become  a  suppliant  there ! 
Yet  there  she  was,  —  she,  and  her  youngest  bom  in  her 
hand,  beggars.  She  presented  her  child  to  the  patronesses 
of  the  institution ;  and,  with  an  unbroken  voice,  prayed 
them  to  take  her  in  for  refuge. 

"  Tiie  common  questions  were  asked,  the  who,  the  whence, 
the  wherefore,  &c.  Even  something  more  than  common 
curiosity  displayed  itself  in  the  inquiries,  and  all  was  an- 
swered with  an  unflinching  spirit.  The  mother's  story  was 
sad  enough.  Let  us  hope  that  such  things  are  rare  in 
England.  She  was  the  widow  of  a  military  man,  an  officer 
of  courage  and  conduct,  who  died  in  battle.  If  we  could 
live  upon  laurels,  liis  family  need  not  have  starved.  But 
the  laurel  is  a  poisonous  tree.  It  is  gay  and  shining,  and 
undecaying ;   but  whoso  tasteth  it  dies !     No  mattei   now. 


94  BARRY   CORNWALL. 

The  widow  and  three  children  were  left  almost  without 
money.  The  father  had  indeed  possessed  some  little  prop- 
erty ;  but  it  consisted  of  bonds,  or  notes,  or  securities  of  a 
transferable  nature ;  and  was  intrusted  (without  receipt  or 
acknowledgment)  to  —  a  villain.  The  depositary  used  it 
for  his  own  purposes ;  denied  his  trust ;  and,  with  the  cold- 
ness of  a  modem  pliilosopher,  saw  his  victims  thrust  out  of 
doors,  to  starve  !  A  good  Samaritan  gave  them  bread  and 
employment  for  a  few  weeks  ;  but  he  died  suddenly,  and 
they  were  again  at  the  mercy  of  fortune. 

"  It  was  now  that  the  mother  felt  that  her  children  looked 
up  to  her  for  life.  And  she  answered  the  appeal  as  a 
mother  only  can.  She  toiled  to  the  very  utmost  of  her 
strength :  nothing  was  too  much,  nothing  too  base  or  menial 
for  her.  She  worked,  and  watched,  and  endured  all  tilings, 
from  all  persons ;  and  thus  it  was  that  she  obtained  coarse 
food  for  her  young  ones,  —  sometimes  even  enough  to  sat- 
isfy their  hunger ;  till  at  last  the  eldest  boy  became  useful, 
and  began  to  earn  money  also ;  and  then  they  were  able 
almost  daily  to  taste  —  bread!  It  is  a  wonder  how  they 
lived,  —  how  they  shunned  the  vices  and  squalid  evils  which 
beset  the  poor.  But  they  did  so.  They  withstood  all 
temptations.  They  felt  no  envy  nor  hatred  for  the  great 
and  fortunate.  The  sordid  errors  of  their  station  never 
fastened  on  them.  They  grew  up  honest,  liberal-minded, 
courageous.  They  wanted  not  even  for  learning,  or  at 
least  knowledge.  For,  after  a  time,  a  few  cheap  books 
were  bought  or  borrowed,  and  the  ambition  which  the 
mother  taught  them  to  feel  served  the  boys  in  place  of 
instructora.  They  read  and  studied.  After  working  all 
day,  (running  on  errands,  hemng  wood,  and  di-awing  water,) 
these  cliildren  of  a  noble  mother  sat  down  to  gather  learn- 
ing; never  disobeying,  never  murmuring  to  do  what  she, 
to  whom  they  owed  all  things,  commanded  them  to  achieve. 
Yet,  little  merit  is  due  to  them.    It  was  she,  the  incompar- 


THE  MAN-HUNTER.  95 

able  mother,  wlio  did  all ;  saved,  supported,  endured  aU 
for  her  cliildren's  sake,  for  her  dead  husband's  sake,  and  for 
the  disinterested  love  of  virtue ! 

"  I  know  not  what  frightful  crimes  some  progenitor  might 
have  committed,  what  curse  he  might  have  brought  upon 
this  race ;  but  if  none,  in  the  name  of  God's  mercy,  why, 
(when  they  had  been  steeped  in  baseness  and  poverty  to  the 
lips,)  wht/  was  a  curse  more  horrible  than  all  to  come  upon 
them  ?  Poor  creatures  !  had  they  not  endured  enough  ? 
What  is  the  axe  or  the  gibbet  to  the  daily  never-dying  pain 
which  a  mother  feels  who  sees  her  children  famishing  away 
before  her  ?  Sickness,  cold,  hunger,  the  contempt  of  friends, 
the  hate  or  indifference  of  all  the  world  besides,  the  perpet- 
ual heart-breaking  toil  and  struggle  to  live !  to  get  bread, 
yet  often  want  it !  Was  not  aU  enough  ?  I  suppose  not ; 
for  a  curse  greater  than  aU  fell  upon  them. 

"  A  friend,  —  ha,  ha,  ha  !  —  let  me  use  common  words,  — 
a  friend  of  the  elder  son  (who  had,  by  degrees,  risen  to  be 
a  manufacturer's  clerk)  ,^ visited  them  at  their  humble  abode. 
He  was  rich,  he  was,  moreover,  a  specious  youth,  fair  and 
florid,  —  such  as  young  gfrls  fancy  ;  but  as  utterly  hard  and 
impenetrable  to  every  touch  of  honor  or  pity  as  the  stone 
we  tread  upon.  He  —  I  must  make  short  work  of  this 
part  of  my  story  —  he  loved  the  young  sister  of  his  friend, 
or  rather  he  sought  her  with  the  brutal  appetite  of  an  ani- 
mal. He  talked,  and  smUed,  and  flattered  her,  —  (she  was 
a  weak  thing,  and  his  mummery  pleased  her)  :  he  brought 
presents  to  her  mother,  and,  at  last,  ruin  and  shame  upon 
herself.  She  was  so  young,  —  not  fifteen  years  of  age ! 
But  this  base  and  hellish  slave  had  no  mercy  on  her  inno- 
cent youth,  no  respect  for  her  desolate  condition.  He 
ruined  her  —  0,  there  were  horrid  circumstances  !  —  force, 
and  fraud,  and  cruelty  of  all  kinds,  that  I  will  not  touch 
upon.  It  is  suflScient  to  say  that  her  destruction  was 
achieved,   and  all  her  family   in  his  power.     The  child 


96  BARRY  CORNWALL. 

(herself  now  about  to  be  a  mother)  meditated  death.  She 
was  timid,  however,  and  shrank  from  the  vague  and  gloomy- 
terrors  of  the  grave.  So  she  lived  on,  pale  and  humbled, 
uttering  no  complaint,  and  disclosing  no  disgrace,  until 
her  mother  noticed  her  despondency,  and  reproached  her 
for  it.  "With  a  trembling  heart  —  trembling  at  she  knew 
not  what  —  she  inquired  solemnly  the  cause  of  all  this 
woe.  The  girl  could  not  stand  those  piercing  looks.  The 
mother  whom  she  had  obeyed,  not  only  Avith  love,  but  in 
fear  also,  commanded  a  disclosure,  and  the  poor  victim 
sunk  on  her  knees  before  her.  She  told  her  sad  story 
with  sobs  and  streaming  eyes,  and  with  her  figiire  abased 
to  absolute  prostration.  Her  parent  listened  (she  would 
rather  have  listened  to  her  own  death-warrant),  —  looked 
ghastly  at  her  for  a  minute,  and  reproached  her  no  more ! 
Some  accident,  —  some  intennission  of  employment,  (I  for- 
get what,)  made  it  impossible  to  support  the  poor  fallen 
child  with  proper  care.  This  inability  it  was,  joined  to  a 
wish  to  keep  her  shame  secret,  that  carried  the  mother 
and  daughter  to  the  charitable  place  of  which  I  have 
spoken.  And  there  the  child  was  deposited,  under  a 
feigned  name,  to  undergo  the  pangs  of  childbirth. 

"  But  the  sons !  Do  you  not  ask,  where  are  they  ?  Ha, 
ha!  I  am  coming  to  that.  They  knew  nothing,  —  sus- 
pected nothing,  till  all  the  mother's  plans  were  effected ; 
and  then,  with  a  gloomy  countenance,  and  a  voice  troubled 
to  its  depths  with  many  griefs,  she  told  them  —  all." 

"  How  did  they  bear  it  ?  What  did  they  say  or  do  ?  " 
inquired  Denbigh,  breaking  silence  for  the  first  time  since 
the  commencement  of  the  story.     Gordon  answered  :  — 

"  Her  communication  was,  at  first,  absolutely  unintelli- 
gible. It  was  so  sudden,  and  so  utterly  unsuspected,  that 
it  bore  the  character  of  a  dream  or  a  fable.  They  stood 
bewildered.  But  when  the  truth,  —  the  real,  bad,  terrible 
truth  became  plain,  —  when  it  was   repeated  with  more 


THE  MAN-HUNTER.        ,  97 

particulars,  and  made  frightfully  distinct,  —  the  eldest  son 
burst  into  a  rage  of  words.  The  younger,  a  youth  of 
more  concentrated  passions,  started  up,  opened  his  mouth 
as  though  he  would  utter  some  curse ;  but  instantly  fell 
dead  on  the  floor." 

"  Good  G — d !  "  interrupted  Denbigh  again,  "  and  did  he 
die?" 

"  No,"  replied  the  other,  "  he  but  appeared  to  die.  Did 
I  say  '  dead '  ?  No  ;  I  was  wrong.  He  was  not  irrecov- 
erably dead.  By  prompt  help  he  was  revived.  In  the 
struggle  between  life  and  death  blood  burst  from  his 
mouth  and  from  his  nose,  and  he  felt  easier.  Perhaps 
the  oath  which  he  at  that  moment  was  prescribing  to 
himself — the  fierce,  implacable,  unalterable  determination 
which  his  soul  was  forming  —  tranquillized  his  spirit ;  for 
he  awoke  to  apparent  cahnness,  and  expressed  himself 
resigned.  But  he  was  not  so  to  be  satisfied.  Patience,  — 
resignation,  —  forgiveness,  —  these  are  good  words  :  they 
are  virtues,  perhaps ;  but  they  were  not  Ms.  He  was  of 
a  fiery  spirit  —  " 

"  Like  yourself,"  said  Denbigh,  trj'ing  to  smile  away 
the  painful  impression  which  the  story  was  producing  on 
his  mind^ 

"  Ay,  like  myself,  sir,"  was  the  fierce  answer.  "  He 
thought  that  vengeance,  where  punishment  was  manifestly 
due,  was  scarcely  the  shadow  of  a  crime ;  and  /  tliink  so 
too.  He  swore,  silently,  but  solemnly,  (and  invoked  all 
Heaven  and  Hell  to  attest  his  oath,)  that  he  would  thence- 
forward have  but  one  object,  one  ambition  ;  and  this  was  — 
KEVKNGE  !  He  swore  to  take  the  blood  of  the  betrayer, 
and  —  he  did." 

"  When  ?  where  ?  "  asked  Denbigh,  quicldy. 

"  Let  us  take  some  wine,"  said  Gordon  ;  "  I  am  speaking 
now,"  continued  he,  after  he  had  drunk,  "  of  what  tnust  be. 
The  future  is  not  yet  come.  But  an  sure  as  I  see  you  be- 
7 


98  BARRY  CORNWALL. 

fore  me,  so  surely  do  I  see  the  consummation  of  this  re« 
venge.  There  is  a  fate  in  some  things  :  there  is  one  in  thia 
Do  you  remember  the  story  of  the  Spaniard  Agtiirra  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  answered  the  other. 

"  Yet,  it  is  well  known,  —  it  is  true,  —  it  is  memorable, 
and  it  deserves  to  be  remembered ;  for  (except  in  the  one 
instance  of  which  I  now  speak)  it  stands  alone  in  the  cata- 
logue of  extraordinary  events.  You  shall  hear  it  presently, 
if  it  be  only  to  rescue,  by  a  parallel  case,  my  story  from  the 
character  of  a  fiction.  At  present,  let  it  sufiice  to  say,  that 
sure  as  was  Aguirra's  vengeance,  so  sure  shall  be  —  mine  ! " 

"  Yours  ! "  exclaimed  Denbigh,  "  do  I  hear  aright  ?  " 

"  Ay,  open  your  ears  wide.  I  am  the  Revenger !  My 
family  it  is  who  owe  Fortune  so  little,  —  to  whom  vengeance 
owes  so  much  !  My  mother  and  her  famished  brood  it  was 
of  whose  sufferings  I  have  spoken,  and  whose  injuries  I  am 
destined  to  revenge." 

"  But  the  villain  —  ?  "  inquired  Denbigh. 

"  You  do  well  to  bring  me  back  to  him.  Yet  tlunk  not 
that  I  for  a  moment'forget  him.  He  fled  when  he  knew,  — 
nay,  before  he  knew,  —  when  he  but  surmised  that  we  had 
discovered  his  viUany.  He  collected  money  together,  and 
left  his  country.  But  I  was  soon  upon  his  track.  I  too  had 
gathered  some  hard  earnings,  and  my  brother  more  ;  and 
with  these  united,  I  commenced  a  desperate  pursuit.  I  will 
not  weary  you  by  recounting  the  many  difficulties  of  my  task ; 
liow  many  thousand  miles  I  have  journeyed  barefoot,  with 
little  clothing,  with  less  food  (for  I  was  forced  to  economize 
my  poor  means)  ;  how  for  three  years  I  have  been  generally 
a  beggar  for  my  bread,  a  companion  -with  the  unsheltered 
dog ;  how  I  have  been  wounded,  robbed,  and  even  once  im- 
prisoned. That  fortunately  was  but  for  a  day,  or  it  might 
have  overthrown  my  plans  of  vengeance.  Thanks  to  the 
fiiries,  it  did  not ;  I  followed  him,  —  over  all  countries,  from 
Moscow  to  IVIadrid,  from  the  Baltic  to  the  Carpathians.     He 


THE  MAN-HUNTER.  99 

fled  with  a  sense,  with  a  knowledge,  that  I  w^iS  forever  on  his 
track.  He  slept  trebly  armed,  locked  in  and  barred  from  all 
access.  He  has  been  kno'svn  to  rise  at  night,  and  take  flight 
for  a  distant  land.  But,  with  the  unerring  sense  of  a  blood- 
hound, I  was  always  after  him.  I  was  sure  of  him.  He 
never  escaped  me.  No  disguise,  no  swiftness  of  journeying, 
no  digressions  from  the  ordinary  path,  no  doubles,  nor  turn- 
ings, nor  common  feints,  such  as  the  hunted  beast  resorts  to 
in  his  despair,  availed  him.  Wherever  he  was  —  there  was 
I!  not  so  soon  perhaps,  but  quite  as  surely. 

"  Twenty  times  I  have  been  near  meeting  him  alone,  and 
consummating  my  purpose.  But  one  thing  or  other  perpet- 
ually intervened.  A  casual  blow,  without  the  certainty  of 
its  being  fatal,  would  have  been  nothing.  He  might  have 
recovered,  —  he  might  have  lived  to  see  me  proclaimed  a 
malefactor,  and  have  borne  evidence  against  me  ;  and  then 
he  would  have  triumphed,  and  not  I.  I  resolved  to  make 
surer  work ;  to  see  that  he  should  die ;  and  for  myself,  I 
determined  to  live,  for  some  time  at  least,  in  order  to  en- 
joy the  remembrance  of  having  accomplished  one  deed  of 
justice. 

"  I  said  that  I  would  not  weary  you  with  a  narrative  of 
my  travels  and  a  repetition  of  my  failures.  But  one  adven- 
ture amongst  many  occurs  to  me,  somewhat  differing  from 
the  rest,  and  you  sliall  heai*  it.  One  of  my  transits  was  across 
the  whole  face  of  Europe ;  from  an  obscure  town  in  Flan- 
ders to  the  Porte.  I  had  scarcely  reached  the  Fanar 
(where  I  was  housed  by  a  Greek,  whom  I  had  served  in  an 
accidental  affray),  when  I  fell  sick  of  a  fiery  distemper, — 
some  plague  or  fever  begot  in  those  burning  regions,  wliich 
sometimes  destroys  the  native  and  almost  always  the  luckless 
stranger.  In  my  extremity,  ray  kind  hosts  sent  for  a  physi- 
cian, —  a  converted  Jew.  He  came  and  heard  my  ravings, 
and  let  the  sickness  deal  with  me  as  it  chose.  Some  words, 
however,  wliich  I  threw  out  in  my  delirium  (at  his  second 


100  BARRY  CORNWALL. 

visit)  excited  his  curiosity  ;  and  coming,  as  they  did,  from  a 
Frank,  he  was  induced  to  communicate  them  to  an  English- 
man who  lodged  in  his  house.  This  Englishman  was  —  the 
fiend,  the  fugitive,  whom  I  had  chased  so  long  in  vain.  A 
few  words  and  a  lump  of  gold  concluded  a  bargain ;  and 
the  next  time  the  scowling  Issachar  came  to  my  bedside,  he 
ordered  a  cup  of  coffee  for  his  patient.  I  had  at  that  time 
recovered  my  senses,  and  became  suddenly  and  sensitively 
awake  to  everything  about  me.  I  saw  the  renegade  take  a 
powder  from  his  vest,  and,  after  looking  round  to  see  that 
all  was  clear,  put  it,  with  a  peculiar  look,  into  the  cup.  ^It 
is  poison,^  I  said  to  myself ;  and  by  a  sudden  effort  (while 
the  Israelite's  back  was  turned),  I  forced  myself  upwards, 
and  sat,  like  a  corpse  revived,  awaiting  liis  attention.  'After 
he  had  drugged  the  draught,  he  turned  round  suddenly  and 
beheld  me.  There  I  was,  unable  to  speak  indeed,  but 
ghastly  and  as  white  as  stone,  threatening  and  grinning,  and 
chattering  unintelligible  sounds.  He  was  staggered ;  but 
recovering  himself  Avith  a  smile,  he  tendered  the  detestable 
potion.  I  had  just  strength  enough  to  dash  it  out  of  liis 
hand,  and  sank  on  the  bed  exliausted.  When  I  recovered  I 
found  myself  alone  ;  nor  did  I  ever  again  see  my  physician. 
"  I  do  not  complain  of  this.  Life  for  life  is  an  equal 
stake.  I  knew  the  game  which  I  was  playing.  Death  for 
one  or  both  of  us,  —  that  was  certain.  Quiet  for  him,  at  aU 
events  (upon  the  earth  or  within  it)  ;  perhaps  revenge  for 
me.  I  was  not  angry  at  this  attemjDt  on  my  life.  I  liked  it 
better,  in  truth,  than  hunting  day  after  day,  week  after  week, 
a  flying,  timorous,  unresisting  wretch.  The  opposition,  the 
determination  he  evinced  to  strike  again,  spurred  me  on. 
It  afforded  a  relief  to  my  perpetual  disappointment ;  it 
checkered  the  miserable  monotony  of  my  life.  Sometimes  I 
had  almost  felt  compassion  for  my  harassed  and  terrified 
enemy,  and  generally  contempt.  But  now  —  an  adder  was 
before  me.     It  rose  up,  and  strove  to  use  its  fangs,  and  was 


THE  MAN-HUNTER.  101 

no  longer  to  be  trod  on  without  peril.  These  thoughts, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  contributed  to  my  recovery.  I  grew 
tranquil  and  weU  apace ;  and  when  I  was  fit  to  travel,  I 
fomid  that  my  foe  had  quitted  precipitately  the  banks  of  the 
Bosphorus. 

"  I  had  little  difficulty  in  learning  his  route ;  for  my 
Greek  had  his  national  sub  til  ty,  and  did  not  spare  money  to 
set  me  on  the  track.  The  Jew  doctor  (he  had  a  second 
bribe)  said  that  he  had  overheard  my  victim  bargaining 
with  a  Tartar  courier  to  conduct  him  to  Vienna.  Upon  this 
hint,  I  set  off  on  my  dreary  journey  through  the  Ottoman 
Empire  and  its  huge  provinces,  —  Roumelia,  Wallachia, 
Transylvania,  I  traversed  the  great  uncultivated  plains  of 
Turkey ;  I  crossed  the  Balkan  and  the  muddy  Danube ; 
escaped  the  quarantine  of  the  Crapaks ;  and  finally  dis- 
mounted at  Vienna,  just  as  a  carriage  was  heard  thundering 
along  the  Presburg  road  containing  a  traveller  to  whom 
haste  was  evidently  of  the  last  importance.  'T  was  he  ! 
I  saw  him ;  and  he  ^aw  me.  He  saw  me,  and  knew  in 
a  moment  that  all  his  toilsome  journey  was  once  more  in 
vain.  I  saw  him  gro\f  pale  before  me,  and  I  triumphed. 
Ha  !  ha  !  —  that  night  I  was  joyful.  I  ate,  and  drank,  and 
dreamt,  as  though  I  had  no  care  or  injury  upon  me.  The 
next  morning  I  looked  to  see  that  my  dagger  was  sharp, 
and  my  pistols  primed,  and  set  out  on  foot  to  decoy  my  foe 
into  a  quiet  place,  fit  for  the  completion  of  my  purpose. 
But  I  failed,  as  I  had  failed  often  before.  I  beset  liim,  I 
ti-ied  to  surprise  him ;  I  kept  him  in  incessant  alarm ;  but 
the  end  was  still  the  same.  He  was  still  destined  to  escape 
me,  and  I  to  remain  his  pursuer. 

"  How  it  was  that  he  retained  his  senses,  that  he  had  still 
spring  of  nund  to  fly  and  hope  to  escape  pursuit,  is  a 
mystery  to. me.  I  have  often  wondered  that  he  did  not 
bare  his  throat  before  me,  and  end  his  misery  ;  as  those  who 
grow  dizzy  on  a  precipice,  cast  themselves  from  it,  and  find 


102  BARRY  CORNWALL. 

refuge  from  their  intolerable  fears  —  in  death.  But  no  ;  his 
love  of  life,  his  fear  (caused  by  that  love  of  life),  were  so 
great,  so  insuperable,  that  they  never  seemed  capable,  as  in 
ordinary  cases,  of  sinking  into  indifference  or  despaii*.  He 
had  no  moral,  no  intellectual  qualities,  no  courage  of  any 
sort.  Yet  by  his  year  alone,  he  became  at  times  absolutely 
terrific.  His  struggles,  his  holding  on  to  life,  (when  nothing 
was  left  worth  living  for,)  his  sleepless,  ceaseless  activity 
in  flight,  assumed  a  serious  and  even  awful  character.  He 
pursued  Ms  purpose  as  steadily  and  as  unflinchingly  as  I 
pursued  mine.  Terror  never  stopped  him  ;  hope  never  for- 
sook him.     From  one  end  of  the  world  to  the  other  he  fled 

—  backwards  and  forwards,  this  way,  and  that  —  he  fled, 
and  fled ;  not  dropping  from  apprehension,  like  the  dove  or 
the  wren ;  but  still  keeping  on  his  way,  like  some  fierce  bird 
of  prey,  who,  driven  from  one  region,  will  still  seek  another, 
and  another,  and  fight  it  out  to  the  last  extremity.  So 
frightful  have  been  his  struggles,  so  wild  and  fantastic  the 
character  of  his  fears,  that  once  or  twice,  I  —  (his  destroyer) 

—  I,  who  was  watching  bim  with  an  ever-deadly  purpose, 
became  absolutely  daunted  and  oppressed.  I  resumed  my 
strength,  however,  speedily,  as  you  wUl  suppose ;  for  what 
his  fear  was  to  him,  hate  or  revenge  was  to  me,  —  the  sole 
stirring  principle  of  life.  Oh !  this  accursed  wretch !  does 
he  ever  dream  that  I  relax  ?  —  that  toU,  and  destitution,  and 
danger  have  any  effect  upon  me  ?  He  shall  live  to  find  him- 
self in  error.  I  am  the  fate,  —  the  bloodhound  that  will  fol- 
low, and  must  find  him  at  last.  Let  me  give  up  the  contest 
at  once,  and  all  will  be  quiet ;  —  no  more  fear  for  him,  — -  no 
more  sad  labors  for  me  !  Of  what  value  is  life  to  either  of 
us  ?  But  yes,  —  to  me,  it  is  of  value  ;  for  I  have  a  deed  to 
do,  an  act  of" justice  to  perform  on  the  most  reckless  and 
heartless  villain  that  ever  disgraced  the  human  name." 

"  And  his  name,  what  is  that  ?  "  asked  Denbigh. 

"  Wame,  —  Wame,  —  the  brand  of  hell  be  on  him  I " 


THE  MAN-HUNTER.  103 

"  Hush !  do  not  speak  so  loud !  Look !  there  is  some 
one  m  yonder  box  who  has  heard  you,"  said  Denbigh  again, 
in  a  suppressed  tone. 

"  I  care  not,"  replied  the  other.  "  This  devil  who  walks 
in  hmnan  shape,  and  under  the  name  of  TVame,  is  now  in 
this  city.  He  has  eluded  me  for  a  short  —  a  very  short 
time  —  by  shifting  his  course  and  changing  his  disguises. 
But  I  am  here,  and  shall  find  him,  wherever  he  lurks.  Be 
sure  of  it." 

At  this  moment  a  stranger  was  seen  stealing  from  a  box, 
where  he  had  been  taking  refreshment.  He  appeared  by 
his  walk  (for  the  two  speakers  saw  only  his  back)  to  be 
an  old  man.  He  said  nothing ;  but,  walking  up  towards  the 
end  of  the  room,  where  a  person  attached  to  the  inn  was 
standing,  put  a  piece  of  money  in  his  hand,  (evidently  more 
than  sufiicient  to  discharge  his  bill,)  and  left  the  house. 

From  the  first  movement  of  the  stranger,  the  attention  of 
Grordon  was  upon  him :  his  neck  was  stretched  out,  his 
eyes  strained  .and  wicle  open ;  he  even  seemed  to  listen  to 
his  tread. 

"  What  is  the  mattei*?  "  said  Denbigh.  "  There  is  noth- 
ing but  an  old  man  there,  who  is  tottering  home  to  bed." 

Gordon  made  no  reply,  but  followed  the  person  alluded 
to  stealthily  from  the  house.  After  a  minute's  space,  Den- 
bigh saw  him  again  hiding  behind  the  buttress  of  a  building 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  He  was  evidently  watch- 
ing the  stranger  He  did  not  continue  long,  however,  in 
this  situation,  but  stole  forwards  cautiously.  After  pro- 
ceeding a  short  distance,  he  turned,  and  followed  the  wind- 
ings of  a  street  or  road  that  intersected  the  principal  sti'eet 
of  the  town,  and  finally  disappeared. 

Denbigh  never  saw  liim  again.  Tlirec  or  four  days 
afterwards,  the  body  of  an  unknown  man  was  found  in  a 
copse  near  the  city  of  Dessau.  It  was  pierced  with  wounds, 
and   disfigured,  and   the   clothes  were  much  torn,  as  ni  a 


104  BARRY  CORNTV'ALL. 

struggle.  From  one  hand  (which  remained  clasped)  some 
fragments  of  dress,  coarser  than  what  belonged  to  the  body, 
were  forced  with  difficulty  ;  but  they  did  not  lead  to  detec- 
tion. The  stranger  was  buried,  and  as  much  inquiry  made 
respecting  him  as  is  usual  for  pei-sons  for  whom  no  one  feels 
an  interest.  His  murderer  never  was  discovered.  Denbigh 
hift  the  pLoce  immediately  that  the  inquisition  was  over. 
He  did  not  volunteer  his  evidence  upon  the  occasion.  His 
natural  love  of  justice,  and  perceptions  of  right,  were  pei 
haps  obscured  by  his  affection  for  his  fiiend  ;  besides  which, 
nothing  that  he  could  have  said  upon  the  occasion  would 
have  exceeded  a  vague  suspicion  of  the  fact.  At  all  events, 
he-  kept  Gordon's  secret,  until  he  deemed  that  it  was  not 
dangerous  to  disclose  it. 

In  regard  to  Gordon  himself —  he  was  never  more  heard 
of.  A  man,  indeed,  bearing  somewhat  of  his  appearance, 
was  afterwards  seen  in  the  newly-cleared  comitry  near  the 
Ohio ;  but,  excepting  the  resemblance  that  he  bore  to  Den- 
bigh's friend,  and  a  certain  intelligence  beyond  his  situation 
(which  was  that  of  a  common  laborer),  there  was  nothing 
to  induce  a  belief  that  it  was  the  same  person.  Whoever 
he  might  be,  however,  even  he  too  now  has  disappeared. 
He  was  killed  accidentally,  while  felling  one  of  those  enor- 
mous hemlock-trees,  with  which  some  parts  of  the  great 
continent  abound.  A  shallow  grave  was  scooped  for  him  ; 
a  fellow-laborer's  prayer  was  his  only  requiem ;  and,  what- 
ever may  have  been  his  intellect,  whatever  his  passions  oi 
strength  of  purpose,  the  frail  body  which  once  contaLoed 
them  now  merely  fertilizes  the  glade  of  an  American  forest, 
or  else  has  become  food  for  the  bear  or  the  jackal. 

[The  story  of  Aguirra,  referred  to  in  the  foregoing  nar- 
rative, occurs  in  one  of  our  early  periodical  works,  and  is  to 
the  following  effect :  Aguirra  was  a  Spanish  soldier,  under 
the  vommand  of  Esquivel,   governor  of  Lima  or  Potosi. 


THE  MAN-IIUNTER.  105 

For  some  small  cause,  or  for  no  cause,  (to  make  an  ex- 
ample, or  to  wreak  Hs  spite,)  tliis  governor  caused  Aguii-ra 
to  be  stripped  and  flogged.  He  received  some  hundred 
stripes  ;  his  remonstrances  (that  he  was  a  gentleman,  and  as 
such  exempt  by  law  from  such  disgrace,  and  that  what  he 
had  done  was  unimpoi-tant,  and  justified  by  common  usage) 
being  treated  with  contempt.  He  endured  the  punishment 
in  the  presence  of  a  crowd  of  comrades  and  strangers,  and 
swore  (with  a  Spaniard's  spirit)  never  to  be  satisfied  but 
with  his  tyrant's  blood.  He  waited  patiently,  until  Esquivel 
was  no  longer  governor ;  refusing  consolation,  and  declin- 
ing, from  fancied  unworthiness,  all  honorable  employment. 
But,  when  the  governor  put  off  liis  authority,  then  Aguirra 
commenced  his  revenge.  He  followed  his  victim  from 
place  to  place,  —  haunted  him  like  a  ghost,  —  and  filled 
him  (though  surrounded  by  friends  and  servants)  with  per- 
petual dread.  No  place,  no  distance,  could  stop  him.  He 
has  been  known  to  track  his  enemy  for  three,  four,  five- 
hundred  leagues  at  a  time  !  He  continued  pursuing  him  for 
three  years  and  four  months ;  and  at  last,  after  a  journey 
of  five  hundred  leagues,  came  upon  him  suddenly  at  Cuzco ; 
found  him,  for  the  first  time,  without  his  guards,  and  in- 
stantly—  stabbed  him  to  the  heart  1 

Such  is  the  story  of  Aguirra.  It  is  believed  to  be  a  fact ; 
and  so  is  the  story  which  I  have  recounted  above.  The 
circumstancfes  are  not  only  curious  as  showing  a  strange 
coincidence,  but  they  show  also  what  a  powerful  effect  a 
narrative  of  this  kind  may  produce.  For  there  is  little 
doubt  but  that  the  South  American  tale,  although  it  may 
not  absolutely  have  generated  the  spirit  of  vengeance  in 
Gordon's  mind,  so  shaped  and  modified  it  as  to  stimulate 
his  flagging  animosity ;  carried  him  through  all  impedi- 
ments and  reverses  to  the  catastrophe ;  and  enabled  him 
to  exhibit  a  perseverance  that  is  to  be  paralleled  nowhere, 
except  perhaps  in  the  history  of  fanatics  or  martyi-s.] 


THE    NORSEMAN. 

Bt  GERALD   MASSEY. 


A  SWARTHY  strength  with  face  of  light, 
As  dark  sword-iron  is  beaten  bright ; 
A  brave,  fi-ank  look,  with  health  aglow, 
Bonny  blue  eyes  and  open  brow ; 
His  friend  he  welcomes,  heart-in-hand, 
But  foot  to  foot  his  foe  must  stand  : 
A  Man  who  wiE  face,  to  his  last  breath, 
The  sternest  facts  of  life  and  death : 

This  is  the  brave  old  Norseman. 

The  wild  wave-motion  weird  and  strange 
Rocks  in  him !  seaward  he  must  range ; 
His  life  is  just  a  mighty  lust 
To  wear  away  ■with  use,  not  rust ! 
Though  bitter  wintry  cold  the  storm, 
The  fire  within  him  keeps  liim  warm : 
Kings  quiver  at  his  flag  unfm-led, 
The  Sea-King  's  master  of  the  world  ! 

And  conquering  rides  the  Norseman. 

He  hides  at  heart  of  his  rough  life 
A  world  of  sweetness  for  the  "Wife  : 
From  his  rude  breast  a  Babe  may  press 
Soft  milk  of  human  tenderness,  — 
Make  his  eyes  water,  his  heart  dance, 
And  sunrise  in  his  countenance : 


THE  NORSEMAN.  107 

In  meny  mood  his  ale  lie  quaffs 

By  fireliglit,  and  his  jolly  heart  laughs  : 

The  blithe,  great-hearted  Norseman. 

But  when  the  Battle  Trumpet  rings, 
Ills  soul 's  a  war-horse  clad  with  wings ! 
He  drinks  delight  in  with  the  breath 
Of  Battle  and  the  dust  of  death  : 
The  Axes  redden  ;  spring  the  sparks 
Blood-radiant  grow  the  gray  mail-sarks  ; 
Such  blows  might  batter,  as  they  fell, 
Heaven's  gates,  or  burst  the  booms  of  heU ! 
So  fights  the  feai'less  Norseman. 

The  Norseman's  king  must  stand  up  tall, 
If  he  would  be  head  over  all ; 
Mainmast  of  Battle  !  when  the  plain 
Is  miry  red  with  bloody  rain  ! 
And  grip  his  weapon  for  the  fight, 
Until  his  knuckles  ^11  grow  white  ; 
Their  banner-staff  he  bears  is  best 
If  double  handful  for  the  rest : 

When  "  Follow  me ! "  cries  the  Norseman. 

Valiant  and  true,  as  Sagas  tell. 
The  Norseman  hated  lies  like  hell ; 
Hardy  from  cradle  to  the  grave, 
'T  was  their  rehgion  to  be  brave : 
Great,  sUent  fighting-men,  whose  words 
"Were  few,  soon  said,  and  out  with  Swords ! 
One  saw  liis  heart  cut  from  his  side 
Living,  and  smiled  ;  and  smiling,  died  : 

The  unconquerable  Norseman. 

They  swam  the  flood  ;  they  strode  in  flame  ; 
Nor  quailed  when  the  Valkyrie  came 


108  GERALD  MASSEY. 

To  kiss  the  chosen,  for  her  charms, 
With  "  Rest  my  Hero,  in  mine  arms." 
Their  spirits  through  a  grim  wide  wound, 
The  Norse  door-way  to  heaven  found ; 
And  borne  upon  the  battle  blast, 
Into  the  hall  of  Heroes  passed : 

And  there  was  crowned  the  Norseman. 

The  Norseman  wi-estled  with  old  Rome, 
For  Freedom  in  our  Island  home  ; 
He  taught  us  how  to  ride  the  sea 
"With  hempen  bridle,  horse  of  tree : 
The  Norseman  stood  with  Robin  Hood 
By  Freedom  in  the  merry  green  wood, 
When  WiUiam  ruled  the  English  land 
With  cruel  heart  and  bloody  hand. 

For  Freedom  fights  the  Norseman. 

Still  in  our  race  the  Norse  king  reigns  ; 
His  best  blood  beats  along  our  veins  ; 
With  his  old  glory  we  can  glow. 
And  surely  sail  where  he  could  row : 
Is  danger  stirring  ?  from  its  sleep 
Our  War-dog  wakes  his  watch  to  keep, 
Stands  with  our  Banner  over  liim, 
True  as  of  old,  and  stem  and  grim ! 

Come  on,  you  '11  find  the  Norseman. 

When  Swords  arc  gleaming  you  shall  see 
The  Norseman's  face  flash  gloriously. 
With  look  that  makes  the  foeman  reel ; 
His  mirror  from  of  old  was  steel ! 
And  still  he  wields,  in  Battle's  hour. 
The  old  Thor's  hammer  of  Noi-se  power. 
Strikes  with  a  desperate  ai-m  of  miglit. 
And  at  tlie  last  tug  turns  the  fight : 

For  never  yields  the  Norseman. 


^^'//-rsi^^ 


THE  DRUIDS. 


By  EDMUND  BURKE. 


BRITAIN  was  in  the  time  of  Julius  Caesar  what  it  is  at 
this  day  in  climate  and  natural  advantages,  temperate 
and  reasonably  fertile.  But,  destitute  of  all  those  improve- 
ments wliich  in  a  succession  of  ages  it  has  received  from  in- 
genuity, from  commerce,  from  riches  and  luxury,  it  then 
wore  a  very  rough  and  savage  appearance.  The  country, 
forest  or  marsh ;  the  habitations,  cottages  ;  the  cities,  hiding- 
places  in  woods ;  the  -people  naked,  or  only  covered  with 
skins  ;  their  sole  employment,  pasturage  and  hunting.  They 
painted  their  bodies  for  ornament  or  terror,  by  a  custom 
general  amongst  all  savage  nations,  who,  being  passion- 
ately fond  of  show  and  finery,  and  having  no  object  but 
their  naked  bodies  on  which  to  exercise  this  disposition, 
have  in  all  times  painted  or  cut  their  skins,  according  to 
their  ideas  of  ornament.  They  shaved  the  beard  on  the 
chin ;  that  on  the  upper  lip  was  suffered  to  remain,  and 
grow  to  an  extraordinaiy  length,  to  favor  the  martial  ap- 
pearance, in  wliich  they  placed  their  glory.  They  were  in 
their  natural  temper  not  unlike  the  Gauls  ;  impatient,  fiery, 
inconstant,  ostentatious,  boastful,  fond  of  novelty,  and,  like 
all  barbarians,  fierce,  treacherous,  and  cruel.  Their  arms 
were  short  javelins,  small  shields  of  a  slight  texture,  and 
great  cutting  swords  with  a  blunt  point,  after  the  Gaulish 
fiishion. 


110  EDMUND  BURKE. 

Their  cliiefs  went  to  battle  in  chariots,  not  unartfuUy 
contrived,  nor  unskilfully  managed.  I  cannot  help  think- 
ing it  something  extraordinary,  and  not  easily  to  be  ac- 
counted for,  that  the  Britons  should  have  been  so  expert 
in  the  fabric  of  those  chariots,  when  they  seem  utterly 
ignorant  in  all  other  mechanic  arts ;  but  thus  it  is  deliv- 
ered to  us.  They  had  also  horse,  though  of  no  great  repu- 
tation, in  their  armies.  Their  foot  was  without  heavy 
armor ;  it  was  no  firm  body ;  nor  instructed  to  preserve 
their  ranks,  to  make  their  evolutions,  or  to  obey  their  com- 
manded ;  but  in  tolerating  hardsliips,  in  dexterity  of  fonn- 
ing  ambuscades  (the  art  military  of  savages),  they  are  said 
to  have  excelled.  A  natural  ferocity  and  an  impetuous 
onset  stood  them  in  the  place  of  discipline. 

It  is  very  difficult,  at  this  distance  of  time,  and  with  so 
little  infoi-mation,  to  discern  clearly  what  sort  of  civil  gov-- 
ernment  prevailed  among  the  ancient  Britons.  In  all  very 
uncultivated  countries,  as  society  is  not  close  or  intricate, 
nor  property  very  valuable,  liberty  subsists  with  few  re- 
straints. The  natural  equality  of  mankind  appears,  and  is 
asserted ;  and  therefore  there  are  but  obscure  lines  of  any 
form  of  government.  In  every  society  of  this  sort  the 
natural  connections  are  the  same  as  in  others,  though  the 
political  ties  are  weak.  Among  such  barbarians,  therefore, 
though  there  is  little  authority  in  the  magistrate,  there  is 
often  great  power  lodged,  or  rather  left,  in  the  father ;  for, 
as  among  the  Gauls,  so  among  the  Britons,  he  had  the 
power  of  life  and  death  in  his  own  family,  over  his  chil- 
dren and  his  servants. 

But  among  freemen  and  heads  of  families  causes  of  all 
sorts  seem  to  have  been  decided  by  the  Druids :  they  sum- 
moned and  dissolved  all  the  public  assemblies ;  they  alone 
had  the  power  of  capital  punishments,  and  indeed  seem  to 
have  had  the  sole  execution  and  interpretation  of  whatever 
laws  subsisted  among  this  people.      In  this   rcspot  the 


THE  DRUIDS.  Ill 

Celtic  nations  did  not  greatly  differ  from  others,  except  that 
we  view  them  in  an  earlier  stage  of  society.  Justice  was 
in  all  countries  originally  admiaistered  by  the  priesthood ; 
nor  indeed  could  laws  in  their  first  feeble  state  have  either 
authority  or  sanction,  so  as  to  compel  men  to  relinquish 
their  natural  independence,  had  they  not  appeared  to  come 
down  to  them  enforced  by  beings  of  more  than  human 
power.  The  first  openings  of  civility  have  been  every- 
where made  by  religion.  Amongst  the  Romans,  the  cus- 
tody and  interpretation  of  the  laws  continued  solely  in  the 
college  of  the  pontifis  for  above  a  century. 

The  time  in  wliich  the  Druid  priesthood  was  instituted 
is  unknown.  It  probably  rose,  like  other  institutions  of 
that  kind,  from  low  and  obscure  beginnings ;  and  acquired 
from  time,  and  the  labors  of  able  men,  a  form,  by  which 
it  extended  itself  so  far,  and  attained  at  length  so  mighty 
an  influence  over  the  minds  of  a  fierce,  and  otherwise  un- 
governable, people.  Of  the  place  where  it  arose  there  is 
somewhat  less  doubt.  Caesar  mentions  it  as  the  common 
opinion  that  this  institi»tion  began  in  Britain  ;  that  there  it 
always  remained  in  the  highest  perfection,  and  that  from 
thence  it  diffused  itself  into  Gaul.  I  own  I  find  it  not  easy 
to  assign  any  tolerable  cause  why  an  order  of  so  much 
authority,  and  a  discipline  so  exact,  should  have  passed 
from  the  more  barbarous  people  to  the  more  civilized  ; 
from  the  younger  to  the  older ;  from  the  colony  to  the 
mother  country ;  but  it  is  not  wonderful  that  the  early 
extinction  of  this  order,  and  that  general  contempt  in  which 
the  Romans  held  all  the  barbarous  nations,  should  have  left 
these  matters  obscure  and  full  of  difficulty. 

The  Druids  were  kept  entirely  distinct  from  the  body  of 
the  people ;  and  they  were  exempted  from  all  the  inferior 
and  burdensome  offices  of  society,'  that  tliey  might  be  at 
leisure  to  attend  the  important  duties  of  their  own  charge. 
They  were  chosen  out  of  the  best  families,  and  from  the 


112  EDMUND  BUEKE. 

young  men  of  the  most  promising  talents ;  a  regulation 
which  placed  and  preserved  them  in  a  respectable  light 
with  the  world.  None  were  admitted  into  this  order  but 
after  a  long  and  laborious  novitiate,  which  made  the  char- 
acter venerable  in  their  own  eyes  by  the  time  and  difficulty 
of  attaining  it.  They  were  much  devoted  to  solitude,  and 
thereby  acquired  that  abstracted  and  thoughtful  air  wliich 
is  so  imposing  upon  the  vulgar.  And  when  they  appeared 
in  public  it  was  seldom,  and  only  on  some  great  occasion ; 
in  the  sacrifices  of  the  gods,  or  on  the  seat  of  judgment. 
They  prescribed  medicine;  they  formed  the  youth;  they 
paid  the  last  honors  to  the  dead ;  they  foretold  events  ;  they 
exercised  themselves  in  magic.  They  were  at  once  the 
priests,  lawgivers,  and  physicians  of  their  nation,  and  con- 
sequently concentred  in  themselves  all  that  respect  that 
men  have  diffijsively  for  those  who  heal  their  disejises,  pro- 
tect their  property,  or  reconcile  them  to  the  Divinity. 
What  contributed  not  a  little  to  the  stjibility  and  power  of 
this  order  was  the  extent  of  its  foundation,  and  the  regu- 
larity and  proportion  of  its  structure.  It  took  in  both 
sexes ;  and  the  female  Druids  were  in  no  less  esteem  for 
their  knowledge  and  sanctity  than  the  males.  It  was  divid- 
ed into  several  subordinate  ranks  and  classes  ;  and  they  all 
depended  upon  a  chief,  or  Arch-Druid,  who  was  elected 
to  his  place  with  great  authority  and  pre-eminence  for  life. 
They  were  further  armed  with  a  power  of  interdicting  from 
their  sacrifices,  or  excommunicating,  any  obnoxious  pei*sons. 
This  interdiction,  so  similar  to  that  used  by  the  ancient 
Athenians,  and  to  that  since  practised  among  Clmstians, 
was  followed  by  an  exclusion  from  all  the"  benefits  of  civil 
community  ;  and  it  was  accordingly  the  most  dreaded  of  all 
punishments.  This  ample  authority  was  in  general  use- 
fully exerted ;  by  the  intei'position  of  the  Druids,  differ- 
ences were  composed  and  wars  ended  ;  and  the  minds  of  the 
fierce  Northern  people,  being  reconciled  to  each  other,  under 


THE  DEUIDS.  113 

the  influence  of  religion,  united  with  signal  effect  against 
their  common  enemies. 

There  was  a  class  of  the  Druids,  whom  they  called 
Bards,  who  delivered  in  songs  (their  only  history)  the  ex- 
ploits of  their  heroes ;  and  who  composed  those  verses 
which  contained  the  secrets  of  Druidical  disciphne,  their 
principles  of  natural  and  moral  philosophy,  their  astronomy, 
and  the  mystical  rites  of  their  religion.  These  verses  in  all 
probability  bore  a  near  resemblance  to  the  golden  verses 
of  Pythagoras ;  to  those  of  Phocylides,  Orpheus,  and  other 
remnants  of  the  most  ancient  Greek  poets.  The  Druids, 
even  in  Gaul,  where  they  were  not  altogether  ignorant  of 
the  use  of  letters,  in  order  to  preserve  their  knowledge  in 
greater  respect,  committed  none  of  their  precepts  to  writ- 
ing. The  proficiency  of  their  pupUs  was  estimated  princi- 
pally by  the  number  of  technical  verses  which  they  retamed 
in  their  memory :  a  circumstance  that  shows  this  discipHne 
rather  calculated  to  preserve  with  accuracy  a  few  plain 
maxims  of  traditionary  science,  than  to  improve  and  extend 
it.  And  this  is  not  the  sole  circumstance  which  leads  us 
to  believe  that  amongr  them  learning  had  advanced  no 
further  than  its  infancy. 

The  scholars  of  the  Druids,  like  those  of  Pythagoras, 
were  carefully  enjoined  a  long  and  religious  silence ;  for  if 
barbarians  come  to  acquire  any  knowledge,  it  is  rather  by 
instruction  than  examination :  they  must  therefore  be  silent. 
Pythagoras,  in  the  rude  times  of  Greece,  required  silence 
in  his  disciples ;  but  Socrates,  in  the  meridian  of  the  Athe- 
nian refinement,  spoke  less  ^than  his  scholars :  everj'thing 
was   disputed  in   the  Academy. 

The  Druids  are  said  to  be  very  expert  in  astronomy,  in 
geography,  and  in  all  parts  of  mathematical  kno^vledge. 
And  authors  speak,  in  a  very  exaggerated  stnun,  of  their 
excellence  in  these,  and  in  many  other  sciences.  Some 
elemental    knowledge    I    suppose    they  had;    but  I   can 


114  EDMUND  BURKE. 

scarcely  be  persuaded  that  their  learning  was  either  deep 
or  extensive.  In  aU  countries  where  Druidism  was  pro- 
fessed, the  youth  were  generally  instructed  by  that  order ; 
and  yet  was  there  httle,  either  in  the  manners  of  the  peo- 
ple, in  their  way  of  life,  or  their  works  of  art,  that  demon- 
strates profound  science,  or  particularly  mathematical  skill. 
Britain,  where  their  discipline  was  in  its  highest  perfection, 
and  which  was  therefore  resorted  to  by  the  people  of  Gaul, 
as  an  oracle  in  Druidical  questions,  was  more  barbarous  in 
all  other  respects  than  Gaul  itself,  or  than  any  other  coun- 
try then  known  in  Europe.  These  piles  of  rude  magnifi- 
cence, Stonehenge  and  Abury,  are  in  vain  produced  in 
proof  of  their  mathematical  abilities.  These  vast  structures 
have  nothing  which  can  be  admired,  but  the  greatness  of 
the  work  ;  and  they  are  not  the  only  instances  of  the  great 
tilings  which  the  mere  labor  of  many  hands  united,  and 
persevering  in  their  purpose,  may  accomplish  with  very 
little  help  from  mechanics.  This  may  be  evinced  by  the 
immense  buildings,  and  the  low  state  of  the  sciences,  among 
the  original  Peruvians. 

The  Druids  were  eminent,  above  all  the  philosophic 
lawgivers  of  antiquity,  for  their  care  in  impressing  the 
doctrine  of  the  soul's  immortality  on  the  minds  of  their 
people,  as  an  operative  and  leading  principle.  This  doc- 
trine was  inculcated  on  the  scheme  of  transmigration,  which 
some  imagine  them  to  have  derived  from  Pythagoras.  But 
it  is  by  no  means  necessary  to  resort  to  any  particular 
teacher  for  an  opinion  which  owes  its  birth  to  the  weak 
struggles  of  unenlightened  reason,  and  to  mistakes  natural 
to  the  human  mind.  The  idea  of  the  soul's  immortality  is 
indeed  ancient,  universal,  and  in  a  manner  inherent  in  our 
nature :  but  it  is  not  easy  for  a  rude  people  to  conceive  any 
other  mode  of  existence  than  one  similar  to  what  they  had 
experienced  in  life;  nor  any  other  world  as  the  scene  of 
such  an  existence  but  this  we  inhabit,  beyond  the  bounds  of 


THE  DRUIDS.  115 

wliich  the  mind  extends  itself  with  great  difficulty.  A<lmi- 
ration,  indeed,  was  able  to  exalt  to  heaven  a  few  selected 
heroes:  it  did  not  seem  absurd  that  those,  who  in  their 
mortal  state  had  distinguished  themselves  as  superior  and 
overruling  spirits,  should  after  death  ascend  to  that  sphere 
which  influences  and  governs  everything  below;  or  that 
the  proper  abode  of  beings,  at  once  so  illustrious  and  per- 
manent, should  be  in  that  part  of  nature  in  which  they  had 
always  observed  the  greatest  splendor  and  the  least  mutar- 
tion.  But  on  ordinary  occasions  it  was  natural  some  should 
imagine  that  the  dead  retired  into  a  remote  country,  sepa- 
rated from  the  living  by  seas  or  mountains.  It  was  natural 
that  some  should  follow  their  imagination  with  a  simplicity 
still  purer,  and  pursue  the  souls  of  men  no  further  than 
the  sepulchres  in  which  their  bodies  had  been  deposited; 
whilst  others  of  deeper  penetration,  obserting  that  bodies 
worn  out  by  age,  or  destroyed  by  accidents,  still  afforded 
the  materials  for  generating  new  ones,  concluded  likewise 
that  a  soul  being  dislodged  did  not  wholly  perish,  but  was 
destined,  by  a  similar  revolution  in  nature,  to  act  again,  and 
to  animate  some  other  body.  This  last  principle  gave  rise 
to  the  doctrine  of  transmigration ;  but  we  must  not  presume, 
of  course,  that  where  it  prevailed  it  necessarily  excluded  the 
other  opinions ;  for  it  is  not  remote  from  the  usual  proced- 
ure of  the  human  mind,  blending,  in  obscure  matters,  imag- 
ination and  reasoning  together,  to  unite  ideas  the  most 
inconsistent.  Wlien  Homer  represents  the  ghosts  of  his 
heroes  appearing  at  the  sacrifices  of  Ulysses,  he  supposes 
them  endued  with  life,  sensation,  and  a  capacity  of  moving, 
but  he  has  joined  to  these  powers  of  living  existence  un- 
comeliness,  want  of  strength,  want  of  distinction,  the  char- 
acteristics of  a  dead  carcass.  This  is  what  the  mind  is  apt 
to  do :  it  is  very  apt  to  confound  the  ideas  of  the  surviving 
soul  and  the  dead  body.  The  vulgar  have  always,  and  still 
do,  confound  these  very  irreconcilable  ideas.     They  lay  the 


116  EDMUND  BURKE 

scene  of  apparitions  in  churchyards ;  they  habit  the  ghost 
in  a  shroud,  and  it  appears  in  all  the  ghastly  paleness  of  a 
corpse.  A  contradiction  of  this  kind  has  given  rise  to  a 
doubt  whether  the  Druids  did  in  reality  hold  the  doctrine 
of  transmigration.  There  is  positive  testimony  that  they 
did  hold  it  There  is  also  testimony  as  positive  that  they 
buried  or  burned  with  the  dead  utensils,  arms,  slaves,  and 
whatever  might  be  judged  useful  to  them,  as  if  they  were  to 
be  removed  into  a  separate  state.  They  might  have  held 
both  these  opinions;  and  we  ought  not  to  be  surprised  to 
find  error  inconsistent. 

The  objects  of  the  Druid  worship  were  many.  In  this 
respect  they  did  not  differ  from  other  heathens ;  but  it  must 
be  owned,  that  in  general  their  ideas  of  divine  matters  were 
more  exalted  than  those  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  and 
that  they  did  not  fall  into  an  idolatry  so  coarse  and  vulgar. 
That  their  gods  should  be  represented  under  a  human  form, 
they  thought  derogatory  to  beings  uncreated  and  imperisha- 
ble. To  confine  what  can  endure  no  limits  within  walls 
and  roofs,  they  judged  absurd  and  impious.  In  these  par- 
ticulars there  was  something  refined,  and  suitable  enough 
to  a  just  idea  of  the  Divinity.  But  the  rest  was  not  equal. 
Some  notions  they  had,  like  the  greatest  part  of  mankind,  of 
a  Being  eternal  and  infinite ;  but  they  also,  like  the  greatest 
pait  of  mankind,  paid  their  worship  to  inferior  objects,  from 
the  nature  of  ignorance  and  superstition  always  tending 
downwards. 

The  first  and  chief  objects  of  their  worship  were  the  ele- 
ments ;  and,  of  the  elements,  fire,  as  the  most  pure,  active, 
penetrating,  and  what  gives  life  and  energy  to  all  the  i-est. 
Among  fires,  the  preference  was  given  to  the  sun,  as  the 
most  glorious  visible  being,  and  the  fountain  of  all  life. 
Next  they  venerated  the  moon  and  the  planets.  After  fire, 
water  was  held  in  reverence.  This,  when  pure,  and  rituall^- 
prepared,  was  supposed  to  wash  away  all  sins,  and  to  qual- 


.     THE  DRUIDS.  117 

ify  the  priest  to  approach  the  altar  of  the  gods  with  more 
acceptable  prayers  ;  washing  with  water  being  a  type  natu- 
ral enough  of  inward  cleansing  and  purity  of  mind.  They 
also  worshipped  fountains,  and  lakes,  and  rivers. 

Oaks  were  regarded  by  this  sect  with  a  particular  ven- 
eration, as  by  their  greatness,  their  shade,  their  stability 
and  duration,  not  ill  representing  the  perfections  of  the 
Deity.  From  the  great  reverence  in  which  they  held  this 
tree,  it  is  thought  their  name  of  Druids  is  derived,  the 
word  Deru  in  the  Celtic  language  signifying  an  oak.  But 
their  reverence  was  not  wholly  confined  to  this  tree.  All 
forests  were  held  sacred ;  and  many  particular  plants  were 
respected,  as  endued  with  a  particular  holiness.  No  plant 
was  more  revered  than  the  mistletoe,  especially  if  it  grew 
on  the  oak ;  not  only  because  it  is  rarely  found  upon  that 
tree,  but  because  the  oak  was  among  the  Druids  peculiarly 
^acred.  Towards  the  end  of  the  year  they  searched  for  this 
plant,  and  when  it  was  found  great  rejoicing  ensued :  it  was 
approached  with  revepence  ;  it  was  cut  with  a  golden  hook  ; 
it  was  not  suffered  to  fall  to  the  ground,  but  received  with 
great  care  and  solemnity  upon  a  white  garment. 

In  ancient  times,  and  in  all  countries,  the  profession  of 
physic  was  annexed  to  the  priesthood.  Men  imagined  that 
all  their  diseases  were  inflicted  by  the  immediate  displeas- 
ure of  the  Deity,  and  therefore  concluded  that  the  remedy 
would  most  probably  proceed  from  those  who  were  particu- 
larly employed  in  his  service.  Whatever,  for  the  same 
reason,  was  found  of  efficacy  to  avert  or  cure  distempers 
was  considered  as  partaking  somewhat  of  the  Divinity. 
Medicine  was  always  joined  with  magic ;  no  remedy  was 
administered  without  mysterious  ceremony  and  incantation. 
The  use  of  plants  and  herbs,  both  in  medicinal  and  magical 
practices,  was  early  and  general.  The  mistletoe,  pointed 
out  by  its  very  peculiar  appearance  and  manner  of  growth, 
must  have  struck  powerfully  on  the  imaginations  of  a  su- 


118  EDMUND  BURKE. 

perstitious  people.  Its  virtues  may  have  been  soon  discov- 
ered. It  has  been  fully  proved,  against  the  opinion  of 
Celsus,  that  internal  remedies  were  of  very  early  use. 
Yet  if  it  had  not,  the  practice  of  the  present  savage  nations 
suppoils  the  probability  of  that  opinion.  By  some  modem 
authors  the  mistletoe  is  said  to  be  of  signal  service  in  the 
cure  of  certain  convulsive  distempers,  wliich,  by  their  sud- 
denness, their  violence,  and  their  unaccountable  symptoms, 
have  been  ever  considered  as  supernatural.  The  epilepsy 
was  by  the  Romans  for  that  reason  called  Morbus  Sacer  ; 
and  all  other  nations  have  regarded  it  in  the  same  light. 
The  Druids  also  looked  upon  vervain,  and  some  other 
plants,  as  holy,  and  probably  for  a  similar  reason. 

The  other  objects  of  the  Druid  worship  were  chiefly 
serpents  in  the  animal  world,  and  rude  heaps  of  stone,  or 
great  pillars  without  polish  or  sculpture,  in  the  inanimate. 
The  serpent,  by  his  dangerous  qualities,  is  not  iU  adapted  to 
inspire  terror  ;  by  his  annual  renewals,  to  raise  admiration  ; 
by  his  make,  easily  susceptible  of  many  figures,  to  serve  for 
a  variety  of  symbols  ;  and  by  all,  to  be  an  object  of  religious 
observance  :  accordingly  no  object  of  idolatry  has  been  more 
imiversal.  And  this  is  so  natural,  that  serpent-veneration 
seems  to  be  rising  again  even  in  the  bosom  of  Mahome- 
tanism. 

The  great  stones,  it  has  been  supposed,  were  originally 
monuments  of  illustrious  men,  or  the  memorials  of  consid- 
erable actions,  or  they  were  landmarks  for  deciding  the 
bounds  of  fixed  property.  In  time,  the  memory  of  the 
persons  or  facts  which  these  stones  were  erected  to  perpetu- 
ate wore  away  ;  but  the  reverence  which  custom,  and  proba- 
bly certain  periodical  ceremonies,  had  preserved  for  tliose 
places  was  not  so  soon  obliterated.  The  monuments  them- 
selves then  came  to  be  venerated  ;  and  not  the  less  because 
the  reason  foi'  venerating  them  was  no  longer  known.  The 
landmark  was  in  those  times  held  sacred  on  account  of  its 


THE  DRUIDS.  119 

great  uses,  and  easily  passed  into  an  object  of  worship. 
Hence  the  god  Terminus  amongst  the  Romans.  This  relig- 
ious observance  towards  rude  stones  is  one  of  the  most 
ancient  and  universal  of  all  customs.  Traces  of  it  are  to 
be  found  in  almost  all,  aad  especially  in  these  Northern 
nations ;  and  to  this  day  in  Lapland,  where  heathenism  is 
not  yet  entirely  extirpated,  their  chief  divinity,  which  they 
call  Stor  Junkare,  is  nothing  more  than  a  rude  stone. 

Some  writers,  among  the  modems,  because  the  Druids 
ordinarily  made  no  use  of  images  in  their  worship,  have 
given  in  to  an  opinion,  that  their  religion  was  founded  on 
the  unity  of  the  Godhead.  But  this  is  no  just  consequence. 
The  spirituality  of  the  idea,  admitting  their  idea  to  have 
been  spiritual,  does  not  infer  the  unity  of  the  object.  All 
the  ancient  authors  who  speak  of  this  order  agree,  that, 
besides  those  great  and  more  distinguishing  objects  of  their 
worship  already  mentioned,  they  had  gods  answerable  to 
those  adored  by  the  Romans.  And  we  know  that  the 
Northern  nations  who  overran  the  Roman  Empire  had  in 
fact  a  great  plurality  of  gods,  whose  attributes,  though  not 
their  names,  bore  a  close  analogy  to  the  idols  of  the  South- 
em  world. 

The  Druids  performed  the  highest  act  of  religion  by 
sacrifice,  agreeably  to  the  custom  of  all  other  nations. 
They  not  only  oifered  up  beasts,  but  even  human  victims ; 
a  barbarity  almost  universal  in  the  heathen  world,  but  exei-- 
cised  more  uniformly,  and  with  circumstances  of  peculiar 
craelty,  amongst  those  nations  where  the  religion  of  the 
Druids  prevailed.  They  held  that  the  life  of  a  man  was 
(he  only  atonement  for  the  life  of  a  man.  They  frequently 
enclosed  a  number  of  wretches,  some  captives,  some  crimi- 
nals, and,  Avhen  these  were  wanting,  even  innocent  victims, 
in  a  gigantic  statue  of  wicker-work,  to  which  they  set  fire, 
and  invoked  their  deities  amidst  the  horrid  cries  and  shrieks 
of  the  sufferers,  and  the  shouts  of  those  who  assisted  at 
this  tremendous  rite. 


120  EDMUND  BURKE. 

There  were  none  among  the  aoiients  more  eminent  foi 
all  the  arts  of  divination  than  the  Druids.  Many  of  the 
superstitious  practices  in  use  to  this  day  among  the  countiy 
people  for  discovering  their  future  fortune  seem  to  be 
remains  of  Druidism.  Futurity  is  the  great  concern  of 
mankind.  Whilst  the  wise  and  learned  look  back  upon  ex- 
perience and  history,  and  reason  from  things  past  about 
events  to  come,  it  is  natural  for  the  rude  and  ignorant,  who 
have  the  same  desires  without  the  same  reasonable  means 
of  satisfaction,  to  inquire  into  the  secrets  of  futm-ity,  and 
to  govern  their  conduct  by  omens,  dreams,  and  prodigies. 
The  Druids,  as  well  as  the  Etruscan  and  Roman  priest- 
hood, attended  with  diligence  the  flight  of  birds,  the  pecking 
of  chickens,  and  the  entrails  of  their  animal  sacrifices.  It 
was  obvious  that  no  contemptible  prognostics  of  the  weather 
were  to  be  taken  from  certain  motions  and  appearances  in 
birds  and  beasts.  A  people  who  lived  mostly  in  the  open 
air  must  have  been  well  skilled  in  these  observations.  And 
as  changes  in  the  weather  influenced  much  the  fortune  of 
their  huntings,  or  their  harvests,  which  were  all  their  for- 
tunes, it  was  easy  to  apply  the  same  prognostics  to  every 
event  by  a  transition  very  natural  and  common ;  and  thus 
probably  arose  the  science  of  auspices,  wliich  formerly 
guided  the  deliberations  of  councils,  and  the  motions  of 
armies,  though  now  they  only  serve,  and  scarcely  serve,  tc 
amuse  the  vulgar. 

The  Druid  temple  is  represented  to  have  been  nothing 
more  than  a  consecrated  wood.  The  ancients  speak  of  no 
other.  But  moniunents  remain  which  show  that  the  Druids 
were  not  in  this  respect  wholly  confined  to  groves.  They 
had  also  a  species  of  building,  which  in  all  probability 
was  destined  to  religious  use.  '^'his  sort  of  structure 
was  indeed  without  walls  or  roof.  It  was  a  colonnade, 
generally  circular,  of  huge  rude  stones,  sometimes  single, 
sometimes    double  ;    sometimes    with,    often    without,    an 


THE  DRUroS.  121 

architrave.  These  open  temples  were  not  in  all  respects 
peculiar  to  the  Northern  nations.  Those  of  the  Greeks 
which  were  dedicated  to  the  celestial  gods,  ought  in  strict- 
ness to  have  had  no  roof,  and  were  thence  called  Hy- 
pcBthra. 

Many  of  these  monuments  remain  in  the  British  islands, 
curious  for  their  antiquity,  or  astonishing  for  the  greatness 
of  the  work ;  enormous  masses  of  rock,  so  poised  as  to  be 
set  in  motion  with  the  slightest  touch,  yet  not  to  be  pushed 
from  their  place  by  a  very  great  power :  vast  altars,  pecu- 
liar and  mystical  in  their  structure,  thrones,  basins,  heaps 
or  keams  ;  and  a  variety  of  other  works,  displaying  a  wild 
industry,  and  a  strange  mixture  of  ingenuity  and  rudeness. 
But  they  are  all  worthy  of  attention ;  not  only  as  such 
monuments  often  clear  up  the  darkness,  and  supply  the 
defects,  of  history,  but  as  they  lay  open  a  noble  field  of 
speculation  for  those  who  study  the  changes  which  have 
happened  in  the  manners,  opinions,  and  sciences  of  men, 
and  who  think  them  as  worthy  of  regard  as  the  fortune 
of  wars,  and  the  revolutions  of  kingdoms. 

The  short  account  wljich  I  have  here  given  does  not  con- 
tain the  whole  of  what  is  handed  down  to  us  by  ancient 
writers,  or  discovered  by  modern  research,  concerning  this 
remai'kable  order.  But  I  have  selected  those  which  appear 
to  me  the  most  striking  features,  and  such  as  tlii'ow  the 
strongest  light  on  the  genius  and  true  character  of  the  Dni- 
idical  institution.  In  some  respects  it  was  undoubtedly 
very  singular  ;  it  stood  out  more  from  the  body  of  the 
people  than  the  priesthood  of  other  nations  ;  and  their 
knowledge  and  policy  aj^peared  the  more  striking  by  being 
contrasted  with  the  great  simplicity  and  rudeness  of  the 
people  over  whom  they  presided.  But,  notwithstanding 
some  peculiar  appearances  and  practices,  it  is  impossible 
not  to  perceive  a  great  conformity  between  this  and  the 
ancient  orders  which  have  been  established  for  the  purposes 


122  EDMUND  BURKE. 

of  reb'gion  in  almost  all  countries.  For,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  resemblance  which  many  have  traced  between  this  and 
the  Jewish  priesthood,  the  Persian  Magi,  and  the  India 
Brachmans,  it  did  not  so  greatly  differ  from  the  Roman 
priesthood  either  in  the  original  objects,  or  in  the  general 
mode  of  worship,  or  in  the  constitution  of  their  hierarchy. 
In  the  original  institution,  neither  of  these  nations  had  the 
use  of  images ;  the  rules  of  the  Salian  as  well  as  Druid 
discipline  were  delivered  in  verse  ;  both  orders  were  under 
an  elective  head ;  and  both  were  for  a  long  time  the  law- 
yers of  their  country.  So  that  when  the  order  of  Druids 
was  suppressed  by  the  emperors,  it  was  rather  from  a  dread 
of  an  influence  incompatible  with  the  Roman  government, 
than  from  any  dislike  of  their  r^jigious  opinions. 


THE  WITCHES  DAUGHTER. 

Bt  JOHN  G.  WmTTrEK. 

IT  was  the  pleasant  harvest  time, 
When  cellar-bins  are  closely  stowed, 
And  garrets  bend  beneath  their  load, 

And  the  old  swallow-haunted  bams  — 
Brown-gabled,  long,  and  full  of  seams 
Through  whi,ch  the  moted  sunlight  streams, 

And  winds  blow  freshly  in,  to  shake 
The  red  plumes  of  the  roosted  cocks. 
And  the  loose  haymow's  scented  locks  — 

Are  fiUed  with  simuner's  ripened  stores. 
Its  odorous  grass  and  barley  sheaves. 
From  their  low  scaffolds  to  their  eaves. 

On  Esek  Harden's  oaken  floor. 

With  many  an  autumn  threshing  worn, 
Lay  the  heaped  ears  of  imhusked  com. 

And  thither  came  young  men  and  maids, 
Beneath  a  moon  that,  large  and  low. 
Lit  that  sweet  eve  of  long  ago. 


124  JOHN  G.  WmiTIER. 

They  took  their  places ;  some  by  chance, 
And  others  by  a  merry  voice 
Or  sweet  smile  guided  to  their  choice. 

How  pleasantly  the  rising  moon, 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked  on  them  through  the  great  elm  boughs  I  • 

On  sturdy  boyhood  sun-embrowned, 
On  girlhood  with  its  solid  curves 
Of  healthful  strength  and  painless  nerves ! 

And  jests  went  round,  and  laughs  that  made 
The  house-dog  answer  with  his  howl. 
And  kept  astir  the  barn-yard  fowl ; 

'  And  quaint  old  songs  their  fathers  sung, 
In  Derby  dales  and  Yorkshire  moors. 
Ere  Norman  William  trod  their  shores ; 

And  tales,  whose  merry  license  shook 
The  fat  sides  of  the  Saxon  thane. 
Forgetful  of  the  hovering  Dane ! 

But  still  the  sweetest  voice  was  mute 
That  river-valley  ever  heard, 
From  lip  of  maid  or  throat  of  bird ; 

For  Mabel  Martin  sat  apart, 

And  let  the  haymow's  shadow  fall 
Upon  the  loveliest  face  of  alL 

She  sat  apart,  as  one  forbid. 
Who  knew  that  none  would  condescend 
To  own  the  Witch-wife's  child  a  friend. 


THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER.  125 

The  seasons  scarce  had  gone  their  round, 
Since  curious  thousands  thronged  to  seo 
Her  mother  on  the  gallows-tree ; 

And  mocked  the  palsied  limbs  of  age, 
That  faltered  on  the  fatal  stairs, 
And  wan  lip  trembling  with  its  prayers ! 

Few  questioned  of  the  sorrowing  child. 
Or,  when  they  saw  the  mother  die, 
Dreamed  of  the  daughter's  agony. 

They  went  up  to  their  homes  that  day. 
As  men  and  Christians  justified : 
God  willed  it,  and  the  wretch  had  diedl 

Dear  God  and  Father  of  us  all, 

Forgive  our  faith  in  cruel  lies,  — 

Forgive  the  blindness  that  denies  I 
t 
For^ve  thy  creature  when  he  takes, 

For  the  all-perfect  love  thou  art, 

Some  grim  creation  of  his  heart. 

Cast  down  our  idols,  overturn 
Our  bloody  altars ;  let  us  see 
Thyself  in  thy  humanity  1 

Poor  Mabel  from  her  mother's  grave 
Crept  to  her  desolate  hearthstone. 
And  wrestled  with  her  fate  alone  ; 

"With  love,  and  anger,  and  despair. 
The  phantoms  of  disordered  sense, 
The  awful  doubts  of  Providence  1 


126  JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

The  school-boys  jeered  her  as  they  passed 
And,  when  she  sought  the  house  of  prayer, 
Her  mother's  curse  pursued  her  there. 

And  still  o'er  many  a  neighboring  door 
She  saw  the  horseshoe's  curved  charm, 
To  guard  against  her  mother's  harm ;  — ^ 

That  mother,  poor,  and  sick,  and  lame, 
"Who  daily,  by  the  old  arm-chair. 
Folded  her  withered  arms  in  prayer ;  — 

"Who  turned,  in  Salem's  dreary  jail. 
Her  worn  old  Bible  o'er  and  o'er, 
"When  her  dim  eyes  could  read  no  more  1 

Sore  tried  and  pained,  the  poor  girl  kept 
Her  faith,  and  trusted  that  her  way, 
So  dark,  would  somewhere  meet  the  day. 

And  stUl  her  weary  wheel  went  round 
Day  after  day,  with  no  relief: 
Small  leisure  have  the  poor  for  grief. 

So  in  the  shadow  Mabel  sits ; 
Untouched  by  mirth  she  sees  and  hears ; 
Her  smile  is  sadder  than  her  tears. 

But  cruel  eyes  have  found  her  out. 
And  cruel  lips  repeat  her  name. 
And  taunt  her  with  her  mother's  shame. 

She  answered  not  with  railing  words, 
But  drew  her  apron  o'er  her  face. 
And,  sobbing,  glided  from  the  place. 


THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER.  127 

And  only  pausing  at  the  door, 

Her  sad  eyes  met  the  troubled  gaze 
Of  one  who,  in  her  better  days, 

Had  been  her  warm  and  steady  friend, 
Ere  yet  her  mother's  doom  had  made 
Even  Esek  Harden  half  afraid. 

He  felt  that  mute  appeal  of  tears, 
And,  starting,  with  an  angry  frown 
Hushed  all  the  wicked  murmurs  down. 

«  Good  neighbors  mine,"  he  sternly  said, 
"  This  passes  harmless  mirth  or  jest ; 
I  brook  no  insult  to  my  guest. 

«  She  is  indeed  her  mother's  child ; 
But  God's  sweet  pity  ministers 
Unto  no  whiter  soul  than  hers. 

«  Let  Goody  Martin  rest  in  peace ; 
I  never  knew  her  harm  a  fly. 
And  witch  or  not,  God  knows  —  not  L 

"I  know  who  swore  her  life  away ; 
And,  as  God  lives,  I  'd  not  condemn 
An  Indian  dog  on  word  of  them." 

The  broadest  lands  in  all  the  town, 
The  skill  to  guide,  the  power  to  awe, 
"Were  Harden's  ;  and  his  word  was  law. 

None  dared  withstand  him  to  his  face. 
But  one  sly  maiden  spake  aside  • 
«  The  little  witch  is  evil  eyed ! 


128  JOHN  G.   WHITTIEE. 

"  Her  mother  only  killed  a  cow, 
Or  witched  a  cliurn  or  dairy-pan ; 
But  she,  forsooth,  must  charm  a  man  I " 

Poor  Mabel,  in  her  lonely  home. 
Sat  by  the  window's  naxTow  pane. 
White  in  the  moonlight's  silver  rain. 

The  river,  on  its  pebbled  rim. 

Made  music  such  as  childhood  knew ; 
The  door-yard  tree  was  whispered  through 

By  voices  such  as  childhood's  ear 
Had  heard  in  moonlights  long  ago ; 
And  through  the  willow  boughs  below 

She  saw  the  rippled  water  shine ; 
Beyond,  in  waves  of  shade  and  light, 
The  hills  roUed  off  into  the  night. 

Sweet  sounds  and  pictures  mocking  so 
The  sadness  of  her  human  lot. 
She  saw  and  heard,  but  heeded  not. 

She  strove  to  drown  her  sense  of  wrong, 
And,  in  her  old  and  simple  way. 
To  teach  her  bitter  heart  to  pray. 

Poor  child !  the  prayer,  begun  in  faith, 
Grew  to  a  low,  despairing  cry 
Of  utter  misery :  "  Let  me  die  I 

"  0,  take  me  from  the  scornful  eyes, 
And  hide  me  where  the  cruel  speech 
And  mocking  finger  may  not  reach ! 


THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  I  dare  not  breathe  my  mother's  name  : 
A  daughter's  right  I  dare  not  crt.ve 
To  weep  above  her  imblest  grave  1 

«  Let  me  not  live  until  my  heart, 
With  few  to  pity,  and  with  none 
To  love  me,  hardens  into  stone. 

«  O  God !  have  mercy  on  thy  child. 

Whose  faith  in  tiiee  grows  weak  and  small, 
And  take  me  ere  I  lose  it  all ! " 

A  shadow  on  the  moonlight  fell. 

And  murmuring  wind  and  wave  became 
A  voice  whose  burden  was  her  name. 

Had  then  God  heard  her  ?    Had  he  sent 
His  angel  down  ?     In  flesh  and  blood. 
Before  her  Esek  Harden  stood? 
* 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm : 

«  Dear  Mabel,  this  no  more  shall  be  ; 
Wlio  scoffs  at  you,  must  scoff  at  me. 

"  You  know  rough  Esek  Harden  well ; 
And  if  he  seems  no  suitor  gay. 
And  if  his  hair  is  touched  with  gray, 

«  The  maiden  grown  shall  never  find 

His  heart  less  warm  than  when  she  smiled, 
Upon  his  knees,  a  little  child  ! " 

Her  tears  of  grief  were  tearS  of  joy, 
As,  folded  in  his  strong  embrace, 
She  looked  in  Esek  Harden's  face. 
9 


129 


130  JOHN  G.  WHITTIER.  jr 

*•  O,  truest  friend  of  all !  "  she  said, 

"  God  bless  you  for  your  kindly  thought, 
And  make  me  worthy  of  my  lot ! " 

He  led  her  through  his  dewy  fields, 

To  where  the  swinging  lanterns  glowed. 
And  through  the  doors  the  huskers  showed. 

**  Good  friends  and  neighbors ! "  Esek  sjud, 
"  I  'm  weary  of  this  lonely  life ; 
In  Mabel  see  my  chosen  wife  ! 

"  She  greets  you  kindly,  one  and  all ; 
The  past  is  past,  and  all  offence 
Falls  harmless  from  her  innocence. 

"  Henceforth  she  stands  no  more  alone ; 
You  know  what  Esek  Harden  is  ;  — 
He  brooks  no  wrong  to  him  or  his.** 

Now  let  the  merriest  tales  be  told, 
And  let  the  sweetest  songs  be  sung, 
That  ever  made  the  old  heart  young  I 

For  now  the  lost  has  found  a  home  ; 
And  a  lone  hearth  shall  brighter  bum, 
As  aU  the  household  joys  return ! 

O,  pleasantly  the  harvest  moon. 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked  on  them  through  the  great  elm  boughs  1 

On  Mabel's  curls  of  golden  hair 
On  Esek's  shaggy  strength  it  fell ; 
And  the  wind  whispered,  "  It  is  well !  ** 


THE  OLD  LADY,  AND  THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN 

By  LEIGH  HUNT. 

THE    OLD    LADY. 

IF  the  Old  Lady  is  a  •widow  and  lives  alone,  the  man- 
ners of  her  condition  and  time  of  life  are  so  much  the 
more  apparent.  She  generally  dresses  in  plain  silks,  that 
make  a  gentle  rustling  as  she  moves  about  the  silence  of 
her  room;  and  she  wears  a  nice  cap  with  a  lace  border, 
that  comes  under  the  chin.  In  a  placket  at  her  side  is  an 
old  enamelled  watch,  unless  it  is  locked  up  in  a  drawer 
of  her  toilet,  for  fear  of  accidents.  Her  waist  is  rather 
tight  and  trim  than  otherwise,  as  she  had  a.fine  one  when 
young ;  and  she  is  not  sorry  if  you  see  a  pair  of  her  stock- 
ings on  a  table,  that  you  may  be  aware  of  the  neatness  of 
her  leg  and  foot.  Contented  with  these  and  other  evident 
indications  of  a  good  shape,  and  letting  her  young  friends 
understand  that  she  can  afford  to  obscure  it  a  little,  she 
wears  pockets,  and  uses  them  well  too.  In  the  one  is 
her  handkerchief,  and  any  heavier  matter  that  is  not  likely 
to  come  out  with  it,  such  as  the  change  of  a  sixpence  ;  in 
the  other  is  a  miscellaneous  assortment,  consisting  of  a 
pocket-book,  a  bunch  of  keys,  a  needle-case,  a  spectacle- 
case,  crambs  of  biscuit,  a  nutmeg  and  grater,  a  smelling- 
bottle,  and,  according  to  the  season,  an  orange  or  apple, 
which  after   many  days  she  draws  out,  warm  and   glossy, 


lo2  LEIGH  HUNT. 

to  give  to  some  little  child  that  has  well  behaved  itself. 
She  generally  occupies  two  rooms,  in  the  neatest  condition 
possible.  In  the  chamber  is  a  bed  with  a  white  coverlet, 
built  up  high  and  round,  to  look  well,  and  with  curtains 
of  a  pastoral  pattern,  consisting  alternately  of  large  plants, 
and  shepherds  and  shepherdesses.  On  the  mantel-piece 
are  more  shepherds  and  shepherdesses,  with  dot-eyed  sheep 
at  their  feet,  all  in  colored  ware:  the  man,  perhaps,  in  a 
pink  jacket  and  knots  of  ribbons  at  his  knees  and  shoes, 
holding  his  crook  lightly  in  one  hand,  and  with  the  other 
at  his  breast,  turning  liis  toes  out  and  looking  tenderly  at 
the  shepherdess;  the  Avoman  holding  a  crook  also,  and 
modestly  returaing  his  look,  with  a  gypsy-hat  jerked  up 
behind,  a  veiy  slender  waist,  with  petticoat  and  hips  to 
counteract,  and  the  petticoat  pulled  up  through  the  pocket- 
holes,  in  order  to  show  the  trimness  of  her  ankles.  But 
these  patterns,  of  course,  are  various.  The  toilet  is  an- 
cient, carved  at  the  edges,  and  tied  about  with  a  snow- 
white  drapery  of  muslin.  Beside  it  are  various  boxes, 
mostly  japan ;  and  the  set  of  drawers  are  exquisite  things 
for  a  little  girl  to  rummage,  if  ever  little  girl  be  so  bold,  — 
containing  ribbons  and  laces  of  various  kinds ;  hnen  smell- 
ing of  lavender,  of  the  flowers  of  which  there  is  always 
dust  in  the  corners;  a  heap  of  pocket-books  for  a  series 
of  years ;  and  pieces  of  dress  long  gone  by,  such  as  head- 
fi-onts,  stomachers,  and  flowered  satin  shoes,  with  enormous 
heels.  The  stock  of  letters  are  under  especial  lock  and 
key.  So  much  for  the  bedroom.  In  the  sitting-room  is 
rather  a  spare  assortment  of  shining  old  mahogany  furni- 
ture, or  carved  arm-chairs  equally  old,  with  chintz  dra- 
peries down  to  tlie  ground ;  a  folding  or  other  screen,  with 
Chinese  figures,  their  round,  little-eyed,  meek  faces  perking 
sideways ;  a  stuffed  bird,  perhaps  in  a  glass  case  (a  living 
one  is  too  much  for  lier) ;  a  portrait  of  her  husband  over 
the  mantel- piece,  in  a  coat  with  frog-buttons,  and  a  delicate 


THE  OLD   LADY.  133 

frilled  hand  lightly  inserted  in  the  waistcoat ;  and  opposite 
him  on  the  wall  is  a  piece  of  embroidered  literature, 
framed  and  glazed,  containing  some  moral  distich  or  maxim, 
worked  in  angular  capital  letters,  with  two  trees  or  parrots 
below,  in  their  proper  colors ;  the  whole  concluding  with  an 
ABC  and  numerals,  and  the  name  of  the  fair  industrious, 
expressing  it  to  be  "her  work,  Jan.  14,  1762."  The  rest 
of  the  furniture  consists  of  a  looking-glass  with  carved 
edges,  perhaps  a  settee,  a  hassock  for  the  feet,  a  mat  for 
the  little  dog,  and  a  small  set  of  shelves,  in  which  are 
the  "Spectator"  and  "Guardian,"  the  "Turkish  Spy,"  a 
Bible  and  Prayer-Book,  "  Young's  Night  Thoughts,"  with  a 
piece  of  lace  in  it  to  flatten,  "  JNIrs.  Rowe's  Devout  Exer- 
cises of  the  Heart,"  "  Mrs.  Glasse's  Cookery,"  and  perhaps 
"  Sir  Charles  Grandison,"  and  "  Clarissa."  "  John  Buncle  " 
is  in  the  closet  among  the  pickles  and  preserves.  The 
clock  is  on  the  landing-place  between  the  two  room  doors, 
where  it  ticks  audibly  but  quietly;  and  the  landing-place, 
as  well  as  the  stairs,  is  carpeted  to  a  nicety.  The  house 
is  most  in  character,  and  properly  coeval,  if  it  is  in  a 
retired  suburb,  and  strongly  built,  with  wainscot  rather 
than  paper  inside,  and  lockers  in  the  windows.  Before 
the  windows  should  be  some  quivering  poplars.  Here  the 
Old  Lady  receives  a  few  quiet  visitors  to  tea,  and  per- 
haps an  early  game  at  cards:  or  you  may  see  her  going 
out  on  the  same  kind  of  visit  herself,  with  a  light  umbrella 
running  up  into  a  stick  and  crooked  ivory  handle,  and  her 
little  dog,  equally  famous  for  his  love  to  her  and  captious 
antipathy  to  strangers.  Her  grandchildren  dislike  him  on 
holidays,  and  the  boldest  sometimes  ventures  to  give  him 
a  sly  kick  under  the  table.  When  she  returns  at  niglit, 
she  appears,  if  the  Aveather  happens  to  be  doubtful,  in  a 
calash ;  and  her  servant  in  pattens,  follows  half  behind  and 
half  at  her  side,  with  a  lantern. 

Her  opinions  ai'c  not   many  nor  new.     She   thinks   the 


131  "  LEIGH  HUNT 

dergyman  a  nice  man.    The  Duke  of  WeUington,  in  her 
opinion,  is  a  very  great  man ;  but  she  has  a  secret  prefer- 
ence for  the  Marquis  of  Granby.     She  thinks  the  young 
women  of  the  present  day  too  forward,  and  the  men  not 
respectful  enough;  but  hopes  her  grandchildren  will  be 
better;   though  she   differs   with  her  daughter  in  several 
points  respecting  their  management.     She  sets  little  value 
on  the  new  accomplishments;   is  a  great  though   delicate 
connoisseur  in  butcher's  meat  and  aU  sorts  of  housewifery ; 
and  if  you  mention  waltzes,  expatiates  on  the  grace  and 
fine  breeding  of  the  minuet.     She  longs  to  have  seen  one 
danced  by  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  whom  she  almost  con- 
siders as  a  real  pereon.     She  likes  a  walk  of  a  summer's 
evening,  but  avoids  the  new  streets,  canals,  &c.,  and  some- 
times  goes  through  the   churchyard,   where   her  children 
and  her  husband  lie  buried,  serious,  but  not  melancholy. 
She   has  had  three  great  epochs  in  her  life:   her  mar- 
riage,—  her  having  been  at  court,  to  see  the   King  and 
Queen  and  Royal  Family,  —  and  a  compliment  on  her  fig- 
ure she  once  received,  in  passing,  from  Mr.  Wilkes,  whom 
she   describes   as   a  sad,   loose  man,   but   engaging.     His 
plainness  she  thinks  much  exaggerated.     If  anything  takes 
her  at  a  distance  from  home,  it  is  still  the  court ;  but  she 
seldom  stirs,  even  for  that.     The   last  time  but  one  that 
she  went,  was  to  see  the  Duke  of  Wurtemberg ;  and  most 
probably  for  the  last  time  of  all,  to  see  the  Princess  Char- 
lotte and   Prince    Leopold.     From  tliis  beatific  vision  she 
returned  with   tlie   same  admiration   as  ever  for  the  fine, 
comely  appearance  of  the  Duke  of  York  and  the  rest  of 
the  family,  and  great   delight  at  having  had  a  near  view 
of  the    Princess,  whom  she  speaks  of  with  smiling  pomp 
and   lifted   mittens,  clasping  them   as   passionately  as  she 
can   together,   and   calling  her,   in   a   transport  of  mixed 
loyalty  and   self-love,  a  fine   royal   young  creature,  and 
"  Daughter  of  En<;land." 


THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN.  135 


THE    OLD     GENTLEMAN. 

OUR  Old  Gentleman,  in  order  to  be  exclusively  him- 
self, must  be  either  a  widower  or  a  bachelor.  Suppose 
the  former.  We  do  not  mention  his  precise  age,  which 
would  be  invidious  :  nor  whether  he  wears  liis  own  hair  or 
a  wig  ;  which  would  be  wanting  in  universality.  If  a  wig, 
it  is  a  compromise  between  the  more  modern  scratch  and 
the  departed  glory  of  the  toupee.  If  his  own  haii*,  it  is 
white,  in  spite  of  his  favorite  grandson,  who  used  to  get 
on  the  chair  behind  him,  and  pull  the  silver  hairs  out,  ten 
years  ago.  K  he  is  bald  at  top,  the  hair-dresser,  hovering 
and  breathing  about  him  like  a  second  youth,  takes  care 
to  give  the  bald  place  as  much  powder  as  the  covered  j 
in  order  that  he  may  convey  to  the  sensorium  witliin  a 
pleasing  indistinctness  of  idea  respecting  the  exact  limits 
of  skin  and  hair.  He  is  very  clean  and  neat ;  and,  in 
warm  weather,  is  proud  of  opening  liis  waistcoat  half-way 
down,  and  letting  so  much  of  his  frill  be  seen,  in  order  to 
show  his  hardiness  as  well  as  taste.  His  watch  and  shirt- 
buttons  are  of  the  best ;  and  he  does  not  care  if  he  has 
two  rings  on  a  finger.  If  his  watch  ever  failed  liim  at 
the  club  or  coffee-house,  he  would  take  a  walk  every  day 
to  the  nearest  clock  of  good  character,  purely  to  keep  it 
right.  He  has  a  cane  at  home,  but  seldom  uses  it,  on 
finding  it  out  of  fasliion  with  Iiis  elderly  juniors.  He  has 
a  small  cocked  hat  for  gala  days,  which  he  lifts  higher 
from  his  head  than  the  round  one,  when  bowed  to.  In 
his  pockets  are  two  handkerchiefs  (one  for  the  neck  at 
night-time),  his  spectacles,  and  his  pocket-book.  The 
pocket-book,  among  otlier  things,  contains  a  receipt  for 
a  cough,  and  some  vei*ses  cut  out  of  an  odd  sheet  of  an 
old  magazine,  on  the  lovely  Duchess  of  A.,  beginning, 

"  When  beauteous  Mira  walks  the  plain  " 


136        '  LEIGH  HUNT. 

He  intends  this  for  a  commonplace-book  wliich  he  keeps, 
consisting  of  passages  in  verse  and  prose,  cut  out  of  news- 
papers and  magazines,  and  pasted  in  columns ;  some  of 
them  rather  gay.  His  principal  other  books  are  Shake- 
Bpeare's  Plays  and  IMilton's  Paradise  Lost ;  the  Spectator, 
the  History  of  England,  the  "Works  of  Lady  M.  W.  Mon- 
tague, Pope,  and  ChurchiU ;  IVIiddleton's  Geography ;  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine ;  Sir  John  Sinclair  on  Longevity ; 
several  plays  with  portraits  in  character ;  Account  of  Eliz- 
abeth Canning,  Memoirs  of  George  Ann  Bellamy,  Poetica 
Amusements  at  Bath-Easton,  Blair's  Works,  Elegant  Ex- 
tracts ;  Jimius  as  originally  published  ;  a  few  pamplilets 
on  the  American  War,  and  Lord  George  Gordon,  &c., 
and  one  on  the  French  Revolution.  In  his  sitting-rooms 
are  some  engravings  from  Hogarth  and  Sir  Joshua ;  an 
engraved  portrait  of  the  Marquis  of  Granby ;  ditto  of  M. 
le  Comte  de  Grasse  surrendering  to  Admiral  Rodney ;  a 
humorous  piece  after  Penny ;  and  a  portrait  of  himself, 
painted  by  Sir  Joshua.  His  wife's  portrait  is  in  his  cham- 
ber, looking  upon  his  bed.  She  is  a  little  girl,  stepping 
forward  with  a  smile,  and  a  pointed  toe,  as  if  going  to 
dance.     He  lost  her  when  she  was  sixty. 

The  Old  Gentleman  is  an  early  riser,  because  he  intends 
to  live  at  least  twenty  years  longer.  He  continues  to 
take  tea  for  breakfast,  in  spite  of  what  is  said  against  its 
nervous  effects ;  having  been  satisfied  on  that  point  some 
years  ago  by  Dr.  Johnson's  criticism  on  Hanway,  and  a 
great  liking  for  tea  pi-eviously.  His  china  cups  and  sau- 
cers have  been  broken  since  his  wife's  death,  all  but  one, 
which  is  religiously  kept  for  his  use.  He  passes  Iiis  morn- 
ing in  walking  or  riding,  looking  in  at  auctions,  looking 
after  his  India  bonds  or  some  such  money  securities,  fur- 
thering some  subscription  set  on  foot  by  his  excellent 
friend  Sir  John,  or  cheapening  a  new  old  print  for  his 
portfolio.     He  also  hears  of  the  newspapers ;  not  caring 


THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN.  137 

to  see  them  till  after  dinner  at  the  coffee-house.  He  may 
also  cheapen  a  fish  or  so;  the  fishmonger  soliciting  his 
doubting  eje  as  he  passes,  with  a  profotmd  bow  of  recog- 
nition.    He  eats  a  pear  before  dinner. 

His  dinner  at  the  coffee-house  is  served  up  to  him  at 
the  accustomed  hour,  in  the  old  accustomed  way,  and  by 
the  accustomed  waiter.  If  William  did  not  bring  it,  the 
fish  would  be  sure  to  be  stale,  and  the  flesh  new.  He 
eats  no  tart ;  or  if  he  ventures  on  a  little,  takes  cheese 
with  it.  You  might  as  soon  attempt  to  persuade  him  out 
of  his  senses  as  that  cheese  is  not  good  for  digestion. 
He  takes  port ;  and  if  he  has  drunk  more  than  usual, 
and  in  a  more  private  place,  may  be  induced,  by  some 
respectful  inquiries  respecting  the  old  style  of  music,  to 
sing  a  song  composed  by  Mr.  Oswald  or  Mr.  Lampe,  such 

as, 

"  CI1I06,  by  that  borrowed  kiss," 

"  Come,  gentle  god  of  soft  repose," 

or  his  vrife's  favorite  ballad,  beginning, 

"At  Upton  on  the  hill. 
There  lived  a  happy  pair." 

Of  course,  no  such  exploit  can  take  place  in  the  coffee- 
room  ;  but  he  will  canvass  the  theory  of  that  matter  there 
with  you,  or  discuss  the  weather,  or  the  markets,  or  the 
theatres,  or  the  merits  of  "  my  lord  North "  or  "  my  lord 
Rockingham  " ;  for  he  rarely  says  simply,  lord ;  it  is  gen- 
erally "my  lord,"  trippingly  and  genteelly  off  the  tongue. 
If  alone  after  dinner,  liis  great  delight  is  the  newspaper ; 
which  he  prepares  to  read  by  wiping  his  spectacles,  care- 
fully adjusting  them  on  his  eyes,  and  drawing  the  candle 
close  to  him,  so  as  to  stand  sideways  betwixt  his  ocular 
aim  and  the  small  type.  He  then  holds  the  paper  at 
arm's  length,  and  dropping  his  eyelids  half  down  and  his 


138  LEIGH  HUNT. 

moutlx  half  open,  takes  cognizance  of  the  day's  informa- 
tion. If  he  leaves  off,  it  is  only  when  the  door  is  opened 
by  a  new-comer,  or  when  he  suspects  somebody  is  over- 
anxious to  get  the  paper  out  of  his  hand.  On  these  occa- 
sions he  gives  an  important  hem  !  or  so  ;  and  resumes. 

In  the  evening,  our  Old  Gentleman  is  fond  of  going  to 
the  theatre,  or  of  having  a  game  of  cards.  If  he  enjoys 
the  latter  at  his  own  house  or  lodgings,  he  likes  to  play 
with  some  friends  whom  he  has  known  for  many  years ; 
but  an  elderly  stranger  may  be  introduced,  if  quiet  and 
scientific ;  and  the  privilege  is  extended  to  younger  men 
of  letters ;  who,  if  ill  players,  are  good  losers.  Not  that 
he  is  a  miser,  but  to  win  money  at  cards  is  like  proving 
his  victory  by  getting  the  baggage ;  and  to  win  of  a 
younger  man  is  a  substitute  for  his  not  being  able  to  beat 
him  at  rackets.  He  breaks  up  early,  whether  at  home 
or  abroad. 

At  the  theatre,  he  likes  a  front  row  in  the  pit.  Ho 
comes  early,  if  he  can  do  so  without  getting  into  a  squeeze, 
and  sits  patiently  waiting  for  the  drawing  up  of  the  cur- 
tain, with  his  hands  placidly  lying  one  over  the  other  on 
the  top  of  his  stick.  He  generously  admires  some  of 
the  best  performers,  but  thinks  them  far  inferior  to  Gar- 
rick,  "Woodward,  and  Clive.  During  splendid  scenes,  he 
is  anxious  that  the  little  boy  should  see. 

He  has  been  induced  to  look  in  at  Vauxhall  again,  but 
likes  it  still  less  than  he  did  years  back,  and  cannot  bear 
it  in  comparison  with  Kanelagh.  He  thinks  everything 
looks  poor,  flaring,  and  jaded.  "  Ah ! "  says  he,  with  a 
sort  of  triumphant  sigh,  "  Eanelagh  was  a  noble  place ! 
Such  taste,  such  elegance,  such  beauty!  There  was  the 
Duchess  of  A.,  the  finest  woman  in  England,  sir;  and 
Mrs.  L.,  a  mighty  fine  creature ;  and  Lady  Susan  what's 
her  name,  that  had  that  unfortunate  affair  with  Sir  Charles. 
Sir,  they  came  swimming  by  you  like  the  swans." 


THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN.  139 

The  Old  Gentleman  is  very  particular  in  having  his 
slippers  ready  for  him  at  the  fire,  when  he  comes 
home.  He  is  also  extremely  choice  in  his  snuff,  and  de- 
lights to  get  a  fresh  box-full  in  Tavistock  Street,  in  his 
way  to  the  theatre.  His  box  is  a  cxiriosity  from  India. 
He  calls  favorite  young  ladies  by  their  Christian  names, 
however  slightly  acquainted  with  them ;  and  has  a  privi 
lege  of  saluting  all  brides,  mothers,  and  indeed  every 
species  of  lady,  on  the  least  holiday  occasion.  If  the  hus- 
band, for  instance,  has  met  with  a  piece  of  luck,  he 
instantly  moves  forward,  and  gravely  kisses  the  wife  on 
the  cheek.  The  wife  then  says,  "My  niece,  sir,  from 
the  country " ;  and  he  kisses  the  niece.  The  niece,  see- 
ing her  cousin  biting  her  lips  at  the  joke,  says,  "  My 
cousin  Harriet,  sir "  ;  and  he  kisses  the  cousin.  He 
"  never  recollects  such  weather,"  except  during  the  "  Great 
Frost,"  or  when  he  rode  down  with  "Jack  Skrimshire  to 
Newmarket."  He  gr&ws  young  again  in  his  little  grand- 
children, especially  the  one  which  he  thinks  most  like  him- 
self; which  is  the  handsomest.  Yet  he  lilces  best,  perhaps, 
the  one  most  resembling  his  wife ;  and  will  sit  with  him 
on  his  lap,  holding  his  hand  in  silence,  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  together.  He  plays  most  tricks  with  the  former, 
and  makes  him  sneeze.  He  asks  little  boys  in  general 
who  was  the  father  of  Zebedee's  children.  K  his  grand- 
sons are  at  school,  he  often  goes  to  see  them ;  and  makes 
them  blush  by  telling  the  master  or  the  upper  scholars, 
that  they  are  fine  boys,  and  of  a  precocious  genius.  He 
is  much  struck  when  an  old  acquaintance  dies,  but  adds 
that  he  lived  too  fast;  and  that  poor  Bob  was  a  sad  dog 
in  his  youth ;  "  a  very  sad  dog,  sir ;  mightily  set  upon 
a  short  life  and  a  merry  one." 

When  he  gets  very  old  indeed,  he  will  sit  for  whole 
evenings,  and  say  little  or  notliing ;  but  informs  you,  that 
there  is  JNIrs.  Jones  (the  housekeeper)  —  "  She  '11  talk." 


A  SABBATH  SUMMER  NOON 


By  WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 


THE  calmness  of  this  noontide  hour, 
The  shadow  of  this  wood, 
The  fragrance  of  each  wilding  flower. 

Are  marvellously  good ; 
O,  here  crazed  spirits  breathe  the  balm 
Of  Nature's  solitude  1 

It  is  a  most  delicious  calm 
That  resteth  everywhere, — 

The  holiness  of  soul-sung  psalm. 
Of  felt  but  voiceless  prayer ! 

With  hearts  too  full  to  speak  their  bliss, 
God's  creatures  sUent  are. 

They  silent  are ;  but  not  the  less 

In  this  most  tranquil  hour 
Of  deep,  imbroken  dreaminess, 

They  own  that  Love  and  Power 
Wliich,  like  the  softest  sunshine,  rests 

On  every  leaf  and  flower. 

How  silent  are  the  song-filled  nests 
That  crowd  this  drowsy  tree,  — 


A  SABBATH  SUSIMER  NOON.  141 

How  mute  is  every  feathered  breast 

That  swelled  with  melody ! 
And  yet  bright  bead-like  eyes  declare 

This  hour  is  ecstasy. 

Heart  forth !  as  uncaged  bird  through  ail 

And  mingle  in  the  tide 
Of  blessed  things,  that,  lacking  care, 

Now  full  of  beauty  glide 
Aroimd  thee,  ia  their  angel  hues 

Of  joy  and  sinless  pride. 

Here,  on  this  green  bank  that  o'erviews 

The  far-retreating  glen, 
Beneath  the  spreading  beech-tree  muse, 

Of  all  within  thy  ken  ; 
For  lovelier  scene  shall  never  break 

On  thy  dJKimed  sight  again. 

Slow  stealing  from  the  tangled  brake 

That  skirts  the  distant  hUl, 
With  noiseless  hoof,  two  bright  fawns  make 

For  yonder  lapsing  rill ; 
Meek  children  of  the  forest  gloom, 

Drink  on,  and  fear  no  ill ! 

And  buried  in  the  yellow  broom 

That  crowns  the  neighboring  height^ 

Couches  a  loutish  shepherd  groom, 
"With  all  his  flocks  in  sight ; 

Which  dot  the  green  braes  gloriously 
With  spots  of  living  light. 

It  is  a  sight  that  filleth  me 
With  meditative  joy, 


U2  WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 

To  mark  these  dumb  things  curiously 
Crowd  round  their  guardian  boy  j 

As  if  they  felt  this  Sabbath  hour 
Of  bliss  lacked  all  alloy. 

I  bend  me  towards  the  tiny  flower, 
That  imdemeath  this  tree 

Opens  its  little  breast  of  sweets 
In  meekest  modesty, 

And  breathes  the  eloquence  of  love 
In  muteness,  Lord !  to  thee. 

There  is  no  breath  of  wind  to  move 
The  flag-like  leaves,  that  spread 

Their  grateful  shadow  far  above 
This  turf-supported  head ; 

All  sounds  are  gone,  —  all  murmuring^ 
"With  living  nature  wed. 

The  babbling  of  the  dear  well-springs, 
The  whisperings  of  the  trees, 

And  all  the  cheerful  jargonings 
Of  feathered  hearts  at  ease. 

That  whilom  filled  the  vocal  wood, 
Have  hushed  their  minstrelsies. 

The  silentness  of  night  doth  brood 
O'er  this  bright  summer  noon ; 

And  Nature,  in  her  holiest  mood. 
Doth  all  things  well  attune 

To  joy,  in  the  religious  dreams 
Of  green  and  leafy  June. 

Far  down  the  glen  in  distance  gleams 
The  hamlet's  tapering  spire. 


A  SABBATH  SUMMER  NOON.  143 

And,  glitteriBg  in  meridial  beams, 

Its  vane  is  tongued  with  fire ; 
And  hark  how  sweet  its  silvery  bell,— 

And  hark  the  rustic  choir  I 

The  holy  sounds  float  up  the  dell 

To  fill  my  ravished  ear, 
And  now  the  glorious  anthems  swell 

Of  worshippers  sincere,  — 
Of  hearts  bowed  in  the  dust,  that  shed 

Faith's  penitential  tear. 

Dear  Lord !  thy  shadow  is  forth  spread 

On  all  mine  eye  can  see ; 
And,  filled  at  the  pure  fountain-head 

Of  deepest  piety, 
My  heart  loves  all  created  things, 

And  travels^  home  to  thee. 

Around  me  while  the  sunshine  flings 

A  flood  of  mocky  gold. 
My  chastened  spirit  once  more  sings, 

As  it  was  wont  of  old. 
That  lay  of  gratitude  which  burst 

From  young  heart  imcontrolled. 

When  in  the  midst  of  nature  nursed, 

Sweet  influences  fell 
On  chilly  hearts  that  were  athirst, 

Like  soft  dews  in  the  bell 
Of  tender  flowers,  that  bowed  their  head* 

And  breathed  a  fresher  smell,  — 

So,  even  now  this  hour  hath  sped 
In  rapturous  thought  o'er  me. 


144  WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 

Feeling  myself  with  nature  wed,  — 

A  holy  mystery,  — 
A  part  of  earth,  a.  part  of  heaven, 

A  part,  Great  God !  of  thee. 

Fast  fade  the  cares  of  life's  dull  sweven, 

They  perish  as  the  weed, 
While  imto  me  the  power  is  given, 

A  moral  deep  to  read 
In  every  silent  throe  of  mind 

External  beauties  breed. 


',  /^ 


< .  ^/. . 


THE  INCENDIARY. 

By  mart  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

NO  one  that  had  the  misfortune  to  reside  during  the  last 
winter  in  the  disturbed  districts  of  the  south  of  Eng- 
land will  ever  forget  the  awful  impression  of  that  terrible 
time.  The  stilly  gatherings  of  the  misguided  peasantry 
amongst  the  wild  hills,  partly  heath  and  partly  woodland, 
of  which  so  much  of  the  northern  part  of  Hampshire  is  com- 
posed,—  dropping  in  one  by  one,  and  two  by  two  in  the 
gloom  of  evening,  or  the  dim  twilight  of  a  November  morn- 
ing ;  or  the  open  and  noisy  meetings  of  detei'mined  men  at 
noontide  in  the  streets  and  greens  of  our  Berkshire  villages, 
and  even  sometimes  in  tlie  very  churchyards,  sallying  forth 
in  small  but  resolute  numbers  to  collect  money  or  destroy 
machinery,  and  compelling  or  persuading  their  fellow-labor- 
ers to  join  them  at  every  farm  they  visited ;  or  the  sudden 
appearance  and  disappearance  of  these  large  bodies,  who 
sometimes  remained  together  to  the  amount  of  several  hun- 
dreds for  many  days,  and  sometimes  dispersed,  one  scarcely 
knew  how,  in  a  few  hours ;  their  daylight  marches  on  the 
higli  road,  regular  and  orderly  as  those  of  an  army,  or 
their  midnight  visits  to  lonely  houses,  lawless  and  terrific  as 
the  descent  of  pirates  or  the  incursions  of  banditti ;  —  all 
brought  close  to  us  a  state  of  things  which  we  never  thought 
to  have  witnessed  in  peaceful  and  hai)py  England.  In  the 
sister  island,  indeed,  we  had  read  of  sucli  horrors,  but  now 
they  were  brought  home  to  our  very  household  hearths  ;  we 
10 


146  JIARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

tasted  of  fear,  the  bitterest  cup  that  an  imaginative  woman 
can  taste,  in  all  its  agonizing  varieties ;  and  felt,  by  sad 
experience,  the  tremendous  difference  between  that  distant 
report  of  danger,  with  which  we  had  &o  often  fancied  that 
we  sympathized,  and  the  actual  presence  of  danger  itself. 
Such  events  ai'e  salutary,  inr.smuch  as  they  show  to  the 
human  heart  its  own  desperate  self-deceit.  I  could  not  but 
smile  at  the  many  pretty  letters  of  condolence  and  fellow- 
feeling  which  I  received  from  Avriters  who  wrote  far  too  well 
to  feel  anything,  who  most  evidently  felt  nothing ;  but  the 
smile  was  a  melancholy  one,  —  for  I  recollected  how  often, 
not  intending  to  feign,  or  suspecting  that  I  was  feigning,  I 
myself  had  Avritten  such. 

Nor  were  the  preparations  for  defence,  hoAvever  neces- 
sary, less  shocking  than  the  apprehensions  of  attack.  The 
hourly  visits  of  bustling  parish  officers,  bristling  with  impor- 
tance (for  our  village,  though  in  the  centre  of  the  insur- 
gents, continued  uncontaminated,  —  "  faithful  amidst  the  un- 
faithful found,"  —  and  was,  therefore,  quite  a  rallying-point 
for  loyal  men  and  true)  ;  the  swearing  in  of  whole  regi- 
ments of  petty  constables ;  the  stationary  watchmen,  who 
every  hour,  to  prove  their  vigilance,  sent  in  some  poor 
wretch,  beggar  or  match-seller,  or  rambling  child,  under  the 
denomination  of  suspicious  persons ;  the  mounted  pati'ol, 
whose  deep  "  All 's  well ! "  which  ought  to  have  been  consola- 
tory, was  about  the  most  alarming  of  all  alarming  sounds ; 
the  soldiers,  transported  from  place  to  place  in  carts  the  bet- 
ter to  catch  the  rogues,  whose  local  knowledge  gave  them 
gi'eat  advantage  in  a  dispei'sal ;  the  grave  processions  of 
magistrates  and  gentlemen  on  horseback ;  and  above  all, 
the  nightly  collecting  of  arms  and  armed  men  within  our 
own  dwelling,  kept  up  a  continual  sense  of  nervous  inquie- 
tude. 

Fearful,  however,  as  were  the  realities,  the  rumors  were 
a  hundred-fold  more  alarming.     Not  an  hour  passed,  bul^ 


THE  INCENDIARY.  147 

from  some  quarter  or  other,  reports  came  pouring  in  of  mobs 
gathering,  mobs  assembled,  mobs  marching  upon  us.  Now 
the  high  roads  were  blockaded  by  the  rioters,  travellers 
-murdered,  soldiers  defeated,  and  the  magistrates,  who  had 
gone  out  to  meet  and  harangue  them,  themselves  surrounded 
and  taken  by  the  desperate  multitude.  Now  the  artisans  — 
the  commons,  so  to  say,  of  B.  —  had  risen  to  join  the  peas- 
antry, driving  out  the  gentry  and  tradespeople,  while  they 
took  possession  of  their  houses  and  property,  and  only  de- 
taining the  mayor  and  aldermen  as  hostages.  Now  that 
illustrious  town  held  loyal,  but  was  besieged.  Now  the  mob 
had  carried  the  place  ;  and  artisans,  constables,  tradespeople, 
soldiers,  and  magistrates,  the  mayor  and  corporation  included, 
Avere  murdered  to  a  man,  to  say  nothing  of  women  and  chil- 
dren ;  tlie  market-place  running  with  blood,  and  the  town- 
hall  piled  with  dead  bodies.  This  last  rumor,  which  was 
much  to  the  taste  of  our  villagers,  actually  prevailed  for 
several  hours ;  terrifioA  maid-servants  i-an  shrieking  about 
the  house,  and  every  corner  of  the  village  street  realized 
Shakespeare's  picture  of  "  a  smith  swallowing  a  tailor's 
news." 

So  passed  the  short  winter's  day.  "With  the  approach  of 
niglit  came  fresh  sorrows  ;  the  red  glow  of  fires  gleaming  on 
the  horizon,  and  mounting  into  the  middle  sky ;  the  tolling 
of  bells ;  and  the  rumbling  sound  of  the  engines  clattering 
along  from  place  to  place,  and  often,  too  often,  rendered 
useless  by  the  cutting  of  the  pipes  after  they  had  begun  to 
play,  —  a  dreadful  aggravation  of  the  calamity,  since  it 
proved  that  among  those  who  assembled,  professedly  to  help, 
were  to  be  found  favorers  and  abettors  of  the  concealed  in- 
cendiai'ies.  0  the  horrors  of  those  fires,  —  breaking  forth 
night  after  night,  sudden,  yet  expected,  always  seeming 
nearer  tlian  they  actually  were,  and  always  said  to  have 
been  more  mischievous  to  life  and  property  than  they  actu- 
ally had  been  !     IVIischievous  enough  they  were,  Heaven 


148  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

knows !  A  terrible  and  unholy  abuse  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful and  comfortable  of  the  elements!  —  a  sinful  destruc- 
tion of  the  bounties  of  Providence  !  —  an  awful  crime 
against  God  and  man !  Shocking  it  was  to  behold  the 
peasantry  of  England  becoming  familiarized  with  this 
tremendous  power  of  evil,  —  this  desperate,  yet  most  cow- 
u-dly  sin ! 

The  blow  seemed  to  fall,  too,  just  where  it  might  least  have 
"veen  looked  for,  —  on  the  imoflfending,  the  charitable,  the 
\mcl ;  on  those  who  were  known  only  as  the  laborer's  friends ; 
to  impoverish  whom  was  to  take  succor,  assistance  and  pro- 
eectioii  from  the  poor.  One  of  the  objects  of  attack  in  our 
own  immediate  neighborhood  was  a  widow  lady,  between 
eigaty  and  ninety,  the  best  of  the  good,  the  kindest  of  the 
kind.  Occuirences  like  this  were  in  every  way  dreadful. 
They  made  us  fear  (and  such  fear  is  a  revengeful  passion, 
and  comes  iienr  to  hate)  the  larger  half  of  our  species 
They  weakeiied  our  faith  in  human  nature. 

The  revulsioa  was,  iiowever,  close  at  hand.  A  time  came 
which  changed  the  cun-ent  of  our  feelings,  —  a  time  of  ret- 
ribution. The  firei  wciO  quenched ;  the  riots  were  put 
down ;  the  chief  of  the  riNyters  were  taken.  Examination 
and  commitment  were  the  oider  of  the  day ;  the  crowded 
jails  groaned  with  their  overload  of  wretched  prisoners  ;  sol- 
diers were  posted  at  every  avenue  to  guard  against  possible 
escape ;  and  every  door  was  watched  night  and  day  by 
miserable  women,  the  wives,  mothers,  or  daughters  of  the 
culprits,  praying  for  admission  to  their  unfortunate  relatives. 
The  danger  was  fairly  over,  and  pity  had  succeeded  to 
fear. 

Then,  above  all,  came  the  special  commission :  the  judges 
in  threefold  dignity ;  the  array  of  counsel ;  the  crowded 
court ;  the  solemn  trial ;  the  awful  sentence  ;  —  all  the  more 
impressi\'e  from  the  merciful  feeling  wliich  pervaded  the 
government,  the  coimsel,  and  the  court.     My  father,  a  very 


THE  mCENDIARY.  "  149 

old  magisti'ate,  being  chairman  of  the  bench,  as  well  as  one 
of  the  grand  jury,  and  the  then  liigh  sheriff,  with  whom  it 
is  every  way  an  honor  to  claim  acquaintance,  being  his  inti- 
mate fi'iend,  I  saw  and  knew  more  of  the  proceedings  of 
this  Stirling  time  than  usually  falls  to  the  lot  of  women,  and 
took  a  deep  intei'est  in  proceedings  which  had  in  them  a 
thrilling  excitement,  as  far  beyond  acted  tragedy  as  truth 
is  beyond  fiction. 

I  sliall  never  forget  the  hushed  silence  of  the  auditors,  a 
dense  mass  of  human  bodies,  the  heads  only  visible,  ranged 
tier  over  tier  to  the  very  ceiling  of  the  lofty  hall ;  the  rare 
and  striking  importance  which  that  silence  and  the  awful- 
ness  of  the  occasion  gave  to  the  mere  official  forms  of  a 
court  of  justice,  generally  so  hastily  slurred  over  and  slightly 
attended  to ;  the  unusual  seriousness  of  the  counsel ;  the 
watchful  gi-avity  of  the  judges ;  and,  more  than  all,  the 
appearance  of  the  pris9ners  themselves,  belonging  mostly  to 
the  younger  classes  of  the  peasantry,  such  men  as  one  is 
accustomed  to  see  in  the  fields,  on  the  road,  or  the  cricket- 
ground,  with  sunburnt  faces,  and  a  total  absence  of  reflection 
or  care,  but  who  now,  under  the  influence  of  a  keen  and  bit- 
ter anxiety,  had  acquired  not  only  the  sallow  paleness  proper 
to  a  prison,  but  the  look  of  suffering  and  of  thought,  the 
brows  contracted  and  brought  low  over  the  eyes,  the  general 
sharpness  of  feature  and  elongation  of  countenance,  which 
give  an  expression  of  intellect,  a  certain  momentary  eleva- 
tion, even  to  the  commonest  and  most  vacant  of  human  faces. 
Such  is  the  power  of  an  absorbing  passion,  a  great  and  en- 
grossing grief.  One  man  only  amongst  the  large  number 
whom  I  heard  arraigned  (for  they  were  brouglit  out  by  tens 
and  by  twenties)  would,  perhaps,  under  other  circumstances, 
have  been  accounted  handsome ;  yet  a  painter  would  at  that 
moment  have  found  studies  in  many. 

I  shall  never  forget,  either,  the  impression  made  on  my 
mind  by  one  of  the  witnesses.     Several  men  had  been  ar- 


150  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

raigned  together  for  machine-breaking.  All  but  one  of  them 
had  employed  counsel  for  their  defence,  and  under  their 
direction  had  called  witnesses  to  character,  the  most  respect- 
able whom  they  could  find,  —  the  clergy  and  overseers  of 
their  respective  parishes,  for  example,  —  masters  with  whom 
they  had  lived,  neighboring  farmers  or  gentry,  or  even 
magistrates,  —  all  that  they  could  muster  to  grace  or  credit 
their  cause.  One  poor  man  alone  had  retained  no  counsel,^ 
offered  no  defence,  called  no  witness,  though  the  evidence 
against  him  was  by  no  means  so  strong  as  that  against  his 
fellow-prisoners ;  and  it  was  clear  that  liis  was  exactly  the 
case  in  which  testimony  to  character  would  be  of  much 
avail.  The  defences  had  ended,  and  the  judge  was  begin- 
ning to  simi  up,  when  suddenly  a  tall,  gaunt,  upright  figure, 
with  a  calm,  thoughtful  brow,  and  a  determmed  but  most 
respectful  demeanor,  appeared  in  the  witnesses'  box.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  smock-frock,  and  was  clean  and  respect- 
able in  appearance,  but  evidently  poor.  The  judge  inter- 
rupted himself  in  his  charge  t&  inquire  the  man's  business ; 
and  hearing  that  he  was  a  voluntary  witness  for  the  unde- 
fended prisoner,  proceeded  to  question  him,  when  the  fol- 
lowing dialogue  took  place.  The  witness's  replies,  which 
seemed  to  me  then,  and  still  do  so,  very  striking  from  their 
directness  and  manliness,  were  delivered  with  the  same 
humble  boldness  of  tone  and  manner  that  characterized  the 
words. 

Judge.     "  You  are  a  witness  for  the  prisoner,  an  unsum- 
moned  witness  ?  " 

"  I  am,  my  lord.     I  heard  that  he  was  to  be  tried  to-day, 
and  have  walked  twenty  miles  to  speak  the  truth  of  him,  as 
one  poor  man  may  do  of  another." 
"  What  is  your  situation  in  life  ?  " 
"  A  laborer,  my  lord ;  nothing  but  a  day -laborer." 
"  How  long  have  you  known  the  piisoner  ?  " 
"As  long  as  I  have  known  anything.    We  were  play* 


THE  INCENDIARY.  151 

mates  together,  went  to  the  same  school,  have  lived  in  the 
same  [tarish.     I  have  known  him  all  my  life." 

"  And  what  character  has  he  borne  ?  " 

"As  good  a  character,  my  lord,  as  a  man  need  work 
under." 

It  is  pleasant  to  add,  that  this  poor  man's  humble  testi- 
mony was  read  from  the  judge's  notes,  and  mentioned  in  the 
judge's  charge,  with  full  as  much  respect,  perhaps  a  little 
more,  than  the  evidence  of  clergymen  and  magistrates  for 
the  rest  of  the  accused ;  and  that,  principally  from  this 
direct  and  simple  tribute  to  his  character,  the  prisoner  in 
question  was  acquitted. 

To  return,  however,  from  my  evil  habit  of  digressing  (if 
I  may  use  an  Irish  phrase)  before  I  begin,  and  making  my 
introduction  longer  than  my  story,  a  simple  sin  to  which  in 
many  instances,  and  especially  in  tliis,  I  am  fain  to  plead 
guilty;  —  to  come  back  to  my  title  and  my  subject,  —  I 
must  inform  my  courteous  readers,  that  the  case  of  arson 
which  attracted  most  attention  and  excited  most  interest  in 
this  part  of  the  country,  was  the  conflagration  of  certain 
ricks,  barns,  and  farm-buildings,  in  the  occupation  of  Rich- 
ard Mayne ;  and  that,  not  so  much  fi-om  the  value  of  the 
property  consumed  (though  that  value  was  considerable),  as 
on  account  of  the  character  and  situation  of  the  prisoner, 
whom,  after  a  long  examination,  the  magistrates  found  them- 
selves compelled  to  commit  for  the  offence.  I  did  not  hear 
this  trial,  the  affair  having  occurred  in  the  neighboring  coun- 
ty, and  do  not,  therefore,  vouch  for  "  the  truth,  the  whole 
truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,"  as  one  does  when  an  ear- 
witness  ;  but  the  general  outline  of  the  story  will  suflice  for 
our  purpose. 

Richard  Mayne  was  a  wealthy  yeoman  of  the  old  school, 
sturdy,  boisterous,  bold,  and  kind,  always  generous,  and  gen- 
erally good-natured,  but  cross-grained  and  obstinate  by  fits, 
and  sometimes  purse-proud,  —  after  the  fashion  of  men  who 


152  MARY  RUSSELL  JHTFORD. 

have  made  money  by  their  own  industry  and  shrewdness. 
He  had  married  late  in  life,  and  above  him  in  station,  and 
had  now  been  for  two  or  three  yetirs  a  widower,  with  one 
only  daughter,  a  girl  of  nineteen,  of  whom  he  was  almost  as 
fond  as  of  his  gi-eyhound  Mayfly,  and  for  pretty  much  the 
same  reason,  —  that  both  were  beautiful  and  gentle,  and  liis 
own,  and  both  admired  and  coveted  by  others,  —  that  May 
fly  had  won  three  cups,  and  that  Lucy  had  refused  four 
offers. 

A  sweet  and  graceful  creature  was  Lucy  Mayne.  Her 
mother,  a  refined  and  cultivated  woman,  the  daughter  of  an 
unbeneficed  clergyman,  had  communicated,  perhaps  uncon- 
sciously, much  of  her  own  taste  to  her  daughter.  It  is  true, 
that  most  young  ladies,  even  of  her  own  station,  would  have 
looked  with  great  contempt  on  Lucy's  acquirements,  who 
neither  played  nor  drew,  and  was  wholly,  in  the  phrase  of 
the  day,  unaccomplished;  but  then  she  read  Shakespeare 
and  Milton,  and  the  poets  and  prose-writers  of  the  Jameses' 
and  Charleses'  times,  with  a  perception  and  relish  of  their 
beauty  very  uncommon  in  a  damsel  under  twenty;  and 
when  her  father  boasted  of  his  Lucy  as  the  cleverest  as  well 
as  the  prettiest  lass  within  ten  miles,  he  was  not  so  far 
wrong  as  many  of  his  hearers  were  apt  to  think  liim. 

After  all,  the  person  to  whom  Lucy's  education  owed 
most  was  a  relation  of  her  mother's,  a  poor  relation,  who, 
being  left  a  widow  with  two  children  almost  totally  destitute, 
was  permitted  by  Richard  Mayne  to  occupy  one  end  of  a 
small  farm-house,  about  a  mUe  from  the  old  substantial 
manorial  residence  which  he  himself  inhabited,  whilst  he 
farmed  the  land  belonging  to  both.  Nothing  could  ex- 
ceed his  kindness  to  the  widow  and  her  family ;  and  Mrs. 
Owen,  a  delicate  and  broken-spirited  woman,  who  had  known 
better  days,  and  was  now  left  with  a  sickly  daughter  and  a 
promising  son  dependent  on  the  precarious  charity  of  rela- 
tives and  friends,  found  in  the  free-handed  and  open-heaited 


THE  INCENDIARY.  153 

farmer  and  his  charming  little  girl  her  only  comfort.  He 
even  restored  to  her  the  blessing  of  her  son's  society,  who 
had  hitherto  earned  his  living  by  writing  for  an  attorney  in 
the  neighboring  town,  but  whom  her  wealthy  kinsman  now 
brought  home  to  her,  and  established  as  the  present  assist- 
ant and  future  successor  of  the  master  of  a  well-endowed 
grammar-school  in  the  parish,  Farmer  Mayne  being  one 
of  the  trustees,  and  all-powerful  with  the  other  function- 
aries joined  in  the  trust,  and  the  then  schoolmaster  in  so 
wretched  a  state  of  health  as  almost  to  insui-e  a  speedy 
vacancy. 

In  most  instances,  such  an  exertion  of  an  assumed  rather 
than  a  legitimate  authority,  would  have  occasioned  no  small 
prejudice  against  the  party  protected  ;  but  Philip  Owen  was 
not  to  be  made  unpopular,  even  by  the  unpopularity  of  liis 
patron.  Gentle,  amiable,  true,  and  kind,  —  kind,  both  iu 
word  and  deed,  —  it  wp.8  found  absolutely  impossible  to  dis- 
like him.  He  was  clever,  too,  very  clever,  with  a  remark- 
able aptitude  lor  teaching,  as  both  parents  and  boys  soon 
found  to  their  mutual  satisfaction ;  for  the  progress  of  one 
half-year  of  his  instruction  equalled  that  made  in  a  twelve- 
month under  the  old  regime.  He  must  also,  one  should 
think,  have  been  fond  of  teacliing,  for,  after  a  hard  day's 
fagging  at  Latin  and  English,  and  writing,  and  accounts, 
and  aU  the  drudgery  of  a  boys'  school,  he  would  make  a 
circuit  of  a  mile  and  a  half  home  in  order  to  give  Lucy 
Mayne  a  lesson  in  French  or  Italian.  For  a  certain- 
ty, Philip  Owen  must  have  had  a  strong  natural  turn  for 
playing  the  pedagogue,  or  he  never  would  have  gone  so  far 
out  of  his  way  just  to  read  Fenelon  and  Alfieri  with  Lucy 
Mayne. 

So  for  two  happy  years  matters  continued.  At  the  expi- 
ration of  that  time,  just  as  the  old  schoolmaster,  who  de- 
clared that  nothing  but  Philip's  attention  had  kept  him  alive 
80  long,  was  evidently  on  his  death-bed,  Farmer  Maj^<e  sud- 


154  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

denly  turned  !Mrs.  Owen,  her  son,  and  her  sick  daughter  out 
of  the  house,  which,  by  his  permission,  they  had  hitherto 
occupied ;  and  declared  publicly,  that  whilst  he  held  an 
acre  of  land  in  the  parish,  Pliilip  Owen  should  never  be 
elected  master  of  the  grammar-school,  —  a  threat  which 
there  was  no  doubt  of  his  being  able  to  carry  into  effect. 
The  young  man,  however,  stood  his  ground ;  and  sending 
off  his  mother  and  sister  to  an  uncle  in  "Wales,  who  had 
lately  written  kindly  to  them,  hired  a  room  at  a  cottage  in 
the  village,  determined  to  try  the  event  of  an  election,  which 
the  languishing  state  of  the  incumbent  rendered  inevitable. 

The  cause  of  Farmer  Mayne's  inveterate  dislike  to  one 
whom  he  had  so  warmly  protected,  and  whose  conduct,  man- 
ners, and  temper  had  procured  him  friends  wherever  he  was 
known,  nobody  could  assign  with  any  certainty.  Perhaps 
he  had  unwittingly  trodden  on  Llayfly's  foot,  or  had  opposed 
some  nrejudice  of  her  master's,  —  but  his  general  careful- 
ness not  to  hurt  anything,  or  offend  anybody,  rendered  either 
of  these  conjectures  equally  improbable  ;  —  perhaps  he  had 
been  found  only  too  amiable  by  the  farmer's  other  pet,  — 
those  lessons  in  languages  were  dangerous  thuigs !  —  and 
when  Lucy  was  seen  at  church  with  a  pale  face  and  red 
eyes,  and  when  his  landlord  Squire  Hawkins's  blood-hunter 
was  seen  every  day  at  Farmer  Mayne's  door,  it  became  cur- 
rently reported  and  confidently  believed,  that  the  cause  of 
the  quarrel  was  a  love  affair  between  the  cousins,  which  the 
farmer  was  determined  to  break  off,  in  order  to  bestow  his 
daughter  on  the  young  lord  of  the  manor. 

Affairs  had  been  in  this  posture  for  about  a  fortnight,  and 
the  old  schoolmaster  was  just  dead,  when  a  fire  broke  out  in 
the  rick-yard  of  Farley  Court,  and  Philip  Owen  was  appre- 
hended and  committed  as  the  incendiary !  The  astonish- 
ment of  the  neighborhood  was  excessive ;  the  rector  and 
half  the  farmers  of  the  place  offered  to  become  bail ;  but  the 
offence  was  not  bailable ;  and  the  only  consolation  left  for 


THE  INCENDIARY.  155 

the  friends  ol'  the  unhappy  young  man,  was  the  knowledge 
that  the  trial  would  speedily  come  on,  and  their  internal 
conviction  that  an  acquittal  was  certain. 

As  time  wore  on,  however,  their  confidence  diminished. 
The  evidence  against  him  was  terribly  strong.  He  had  been 
observed  lurking  about  the  rick-yard  with  a  lantern,  in 
which  a  light  was  burning,  by  a  lad  in  the  employ  of 
Farmer  IMayne,  who  had  gone  thither  for  hay  to  fodder  his 
<jattle,  about  an  hour  before  the  fire  broke  out.  At  eleven 
o'clock  the  haystack  was  on  fire,  and  at  ten  Robert  Doyle 
had  mentioned  to  James  White,  another  boy  in  Farmer 
Mayne's  service,  that  he  had  seen  'Mr.  Philip  Owen  behind 
the  great  rick.  Farmer  Mayne  liimself  had  met  liim  at 
half  past  ten  (as  he  was  returning  from  B.  market)  in  the 
lane  leading  from  the  rick-yard  towards  the  village,  and  had 
observed  him  throw  something  he  held  in  his  hand  into  the 
ditch.  Humphry  Harris,  a  constable  employed  to  seek  for 
evidence,  had  found  the  next  morning  a  lantern,  answering 
to  that  described  by  Robert  Doyle,  in  the  part  of  the  ditch 
indicated  by  Farmer  Mayne,  which  Thomas  Brown,  the  vil- 
lage shopkeeper,  in  whose  house  Owen  slept,  identified  as 
having  lent  to  his  lodger  in  the  early  part  of  the  evening. 
A  silver  pencil,  given  to  Owen  by  the  mother  of  one  of  his 
pupils,  and  bearing  his  full  name  on  the  seal  at  the  end,  was 
found  close  to  where  the  fire  was  discovered ;  and,  to  crown 
all,  the  curate  of  the  village,  with  whom  the  young  man's 
talents  and  character  had  rendered  him  a  deserv^ed  favorite, 
had  unwillingly  deposed  that  he  had  said  "  it  miglit  be  in  his 
power  to  take  a  great  revenge  on  Farmer  Mayne,"  or  words 
to  that  effect ;  whilst  a  letter  was  produced  from  the  accused 
to  the  farmer  himself,  intimating  that  one  day  he  would  be 
sorry  for  the  oppression  which  he  had  exercised  towards 
him  and  his.  These  two  last  facts  were  much  relied  upon 
!is  evincing  malice,  and  implying  a  purpose  of  revenge  from 
the  accused  towards  the  prosecutor;  yet  there  were  many 


156  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

who  thought  that  the  previous  circumstances  might  well 
account  for  them  without  reference  to  the  present  occur- 
rence, and  that  the  conflagration  of  the  ricks  and  farm- 
buildings  might,  under  the  spirit  of  the  time  (for  fires  were 
raging  every  night  in  the  surrounding  villages),  be  merely  a 
reraai'kable  coincidence.  The  young  man  himself  simply 
denied  the  fact  of  setting  fii-e  to  any  part  of  the  property  or 
premises ;  inquired  earnestly  whether  any  lives  had  been 
lost,  and  still  more  earnestly  after  the  health  of  Miss  Lucy ; 
and  on  finding  that  she  had  been  confined  to  her  bed  by 
fever  and  delirium,  occasioned,  as  was  supposed,  by  the 
friglit,  ever  since  that  unhappy  occurrence,  relapsed  into  a 
gloomy  silence,  and  seemed  to  feel  no  concern  or  interest  in 
the  issue  of  the  trial. 

His  friends,  nevertheless,  took  kind  and  zealous  measures 
for  his  defence,  —  engaged  counsel,  sifted  testimony,  and 
used  every  possible  means,  in  the  assurance  of  his  innocence, 
to  trace  out  the  true  incendiary.  Nothing,  however,  could 
be  discovered  to  weaken  the  strong  chain  of  circumstantial 
evidence,  or  to  impeach  the  credit  of  the  witnesses,  who,  with 
the  exception  of  the  farmer  himself,  seemed  aU  friendly  to 
the  accused,  and  most  distressed  at  being  obliged  to  bear  tes- 
timony against  him.  On  the  eve  of  the  trial,  the  most  zeal- 
ous of  his  friends  could  find  no  ground  of  hope,  except  in 
the  chances  of  the  day ;  Lucy,  for  whom  alone  the  prisoner 
asked,  being  still  confined  by  severe  illness. 

The  judges  arrived,  —  the  whole  terrible  array  of  the 
special  commission  ;  the  introductoiy  ceremonies  were  gone 
through ;  the  cause  was  called  on,  and  the  case  proceeded 
with  little  or  no  deviation  from  the  evidence  already  cited. 
When  called  upon  for  his  defence,  the  prisoner  again  asked 
if  Lucy  Mayne  were  in  court  ?  and  hearing  that  she  was 
ill  in  her  father's  house,  declined  entering  into  any  defence 
whatsoever.  Witnesses  to  character,  however,  pressed  for- 
ward, —  his  old  master,  the  attorney,  the  rector  and  curate 


THE  INCENDIARY.  157 

of  iJie  pai-ish,  half  the  fanners  of  the  village,  everybody,  in 
short,  who  ever  had  an  opportunity  of  knowing  him,  even 
his  reputed  rival,  Mr.  Hawkins,  who,  speaking,  he  said,  on 
the  authority  of  one  who  knew  him  well,  professed  himself 
confident  that  he  could  not  be  guilty  of  a  bad  action,  —  a 
piece  of  testimony  that  seemed  to  strike  and  affect  the  pris- 
oner more  than  anything  that  had  passed ;  —  evidence  to 
character  crowded  into  court ;  —  but  all  was  of  no  avail 
against  the  strong  chain  of  concurrent  facts  ;  and  the  judge 
was  preparing  to  sum  up,  and  the  jury  looking  as  if  they 
had  already  condemned,  when  suddenly  a  piercing  shriek 
was  heard  in  the  hall,  and  pale,  tottering,  dishevelled, 
Lucy  Mayne  rushed  into  her  father's  arms,  and  cried 
out,  with  a  shrill,  despairing  voice,  that  "  she  was  the  only 
guilty ;  that  she  had  set  fire  to  the  rick ;  and  that  if  they 
killed  Philip  Owen  for  her  crime,  they  would  be  guilty  of 
murder."  * 

The  general  consternation  may  be  imagined,  especially 
that  of  the  farmer,  who  had  left  liis  daughter  almost  insen- 
sible with  illness,  and  still  thought  her  light-headed.  Medi- 
cal assistance,  however,  was  immediately  summoned,  and  it 
then  appeared  that  what  she  said  was  most  true ;  that  the 
lovers,  for  such  they  were,  had  been  accustomed  to  deposit 
letters  in  one  corner  of  that  unlucky  hay-rick  ;  that  having 
seen  from  her  chamber-window  Philip  Owen  leaving  the 
yard,  she  had  flown  with  a  taper  in  her  hand  to  secure  the 
expected  letter,  and,  alarmed  at  her  father's  voice,  had  ran 
away  so  hastily,  that  she  had,  as  she  now  remembered,  left 
the  lighted  taper  amidst  the  hay ;  that  then  the  fire  came, 
jmd  all  was  a  blank  to  her,  until,  recovering  that  morning 
from  the  stupor  succeeding  to  delirium,  she  had  heard  that 
Philip  Owen  was  to  be  tried  for  his  life  from  the  effect  of 
her  cai-elessness,  and  had  flown  to  save  liim  she  knew  not 
how ! 

The  sequel  may  be  guessed ;  Philip  w£is,  of  course,  ao 


158  MARY   RUSSELL  miFOUD. 

quitted ;  everybody,  even  the  very  judge,  pleaded  for  the 
lovei'S ;  the  young  landlord  and  generous  rival  added  his 
good  word ;  and  the  schoolmaster  of  Farley  and  his  pretty 
wife  are  at  this  moment  one  of  the  best  and  happiest  cou/iea 
in  his  Majestj's  dominions. 


/  /- 


WISHING. 

By  JOHN  G.  SAXE. 


OF  all  amusements  for  the  mind, 
From  logic  down  to  fishing, 
There  is  n't  one  that  you  can  find 

So  very  cheap  as  "  wishing." 
A  very  choice  diversion  too, 

If  we  but  rightly  use  it. 

And  not,  as  ye  are  apt  to  do. 

Pervert  it,  and  abuse  it. 

I  wish  —  a  common  wish  indeed  — 

My  purse  were  somewhat  fatter, 
That  I  might  cheer  the  child  of  need, 

And  not  my  pride  to  flatter  ; 
That  I  might  make  Oppression  reel. 

As  only  gold  can  make  it, 
And  break  the  Tyrant's  rod  of  steel, 

As  only  gold  can  break  it. 

I  wish  —  that  Sympathy  and  Love, 

And  every  human  passion 
That  has  its  origin  above, 

"Would  come  and  keep  in  fashion ; 
That  Scoi-n,  and  Jealousy,  and  Hate, 

And  every  base  emotion, 
Were  buried  fifty  fathom  deep 

Beneath  the  waves  of  Ocean  ! 


160  JOHN  G.  SAXE. 

I  %\'ish  —  that  friends  were  always  true. 

And  motives  always  pure  ; 
I  wish  the  good  were  not  so  few, 

I  wish  the  bad  were  fewer ; 
I  wish  that  parsons  ne'er  forgot 

To  heed  their  pious  teaching  ; 
I  wish  that  practising  was  not 

So  different  from  preaching  ! 

1  wish  —  that  modest  worth  might  be 

Appraised  \vith  truth  and  candor ; 
I  wish  that  innocence  were  free 

From  treachery  and  slander ; 
I  wish  that  men  their  vows  would  mind ; 

That  women  ne'er  were  rovers  ; 
I  wish  that  wives  were  always  kind, 

And  husbands  always  lovers ! 

I  wish  —  in  fine  —  that  Joy  and  Mirth, 

And  every  good  Ideal, 
May  come  erewhile,  throughout  the  earth. 

To  be  the  glorious  Real ; 
Till  God  shall  every  creature  bless 

With  his  supremest  blessing, 
And  Hope  be  lost  in  Happiness, 

And  Wishing  in  Possessing  1 


THE   GREAT  PORTRAIT-PAINTERS 

Bt  CHARLES  ROBERT  LESLIE. 


THERE  has  never  existed  a  great  painter  of  History 
or  Poetry  who  has  not  been  gi-eat  in  portrait.  Even 
Michael  Angelo  is  no  exception.  There  may  not  remain 
any  painted  portraits  of  known  persons  by  his  hand,  but 
there  ai'e  sculptured  portraits  by  him,  and  it  is  impossible 
to  look  even  at  the  engravings  of  the  Prophets  and  Sibyls, 
without  seeing  that  tney  are  from  a  hand  practised  in 
portrait,  a  hand,  too,  that  had  acquired  its  power  by  the 
practice  of  literal  exactness.  "  Fuseli  distinguishes  the 
styles,  epic,  dramatic,  and  historic,  beautifully,"  says  IMr. 
Haydon.  But  I  think,  as  I  do  of  such  distinctions  gen- 
erally, that  these  are  entirely  imaginary  ;  and  that  the  style 
of  Michael  Angelo  is  distinguished,  as  are  all  others,  by 
the  peculiar  mind  of  the  artist  only.  Haydon  adds  that, 
"  the  same  instruments  are  used  in  all  styles,  men  and 
women ;  and  no  two  men  or  women  were  ever  the  same 
in  form,  feature,  or  proportion.  After  Fuseli  has  said, 
*  the  detail  of  character  is  not  consistent  with  the  epic,'  he 
goes  on  to  show  the  great  difference  of  character  between 
each  Prophet,  as  decided  as  any  character  chosen  by  Ra- 
phael in  any  of  his  more  essentially  dramatic  works.  '  Nor 
are  the  Sibyls,'  continues  Fuseli,  '  those  female  oracles,  less 
expressive  or  less  individually  marked.'"  Thus,  though 
Haydon  was  unwilling  to  abandon  the  classifications  of 
11 


1G2  CHARLES  ROBERT  LESLIE. 

Fuseli,  the  contradiction  involved  in  them  did  not  escape 
him. 

There  cannot  be  a  doubt  that  Michael  Angelo,  had  he 
devoted  himself  to  portrait  only,  would  have  been  a  super- 
lative portrait-painter ;  for  in  his  works  we  find  everything 
in  perfection  that  portrait  requires,  —  dignity,  the  expres- 
sion of  character,  the  highest  perception  of  beauty,  in  man, 
woman,  and  child;  and  not  only  in  the  unfinished  marble 
that  adorns  our  Academy  library,  but  in  the  smaller  com- 
partments of  the  Sistine  ceiling,  the  most  natural  and  fa- 
miliar domestic  incidents  treated  in  the  most  graceful 
manner.  It  is  right  this  should  be  remembered,  because 
painters  (as  they  fancy  themselves)  of  High  Art,  who 
really  have  not  the  talents  portrait  requires,  must  not  be 
allowed  to  class  themselves  with  Michael  Angelo,  as  long 
as  they  cannot  do  what  he,  in  perfection,  could  do. 

Conspicuous  as  he  stands  among  great  portrait-painters, 
Vandyke  is  not  first  of  the  first.  The  attitudes  of  his 
single  figures  are  often  formal  and  unmeaning ;  and  his 
groups,  however  finely  connected  by  composition,  are  sel- 
dom connected  by  sentiment.  Fathers,  mothers,  sons,  and 
daughters,  stand  or  sit  beside  each  other,  as  they  stood  or 
sat  in  his  room,  for  the  mere  purpose  of  being  painted ; 
and  it  is  therefore  the  nicely  discriminated  individual  char- 
acter of  every  head,  the  freshness  and  dehcacy  of  his  color, 
and  the  fine  treatment  of  his  masses,  that  have  placed  him 
high  among  portrait-punters.  The  Countess  of  Bedford, 
at  Petworth,  his  Snyders  at  Castle  Howard,  liis  whole 
lengths  at  "Warwick  and  at  "Windsor,  the  noble  equestrian 
picture  at  Blenheim,  of  Charles  L,  with  its  magnificent 
landscape  background,  and  the  whole  length  of  Charles  in 
the  Louvre,  are  among  the  masterpieces  of  "Vandyke ;  but 
he  has  nowhere  shown  such  dramatic  powers  as  are  dis- 
played by  "Velasquez,  in  his  portrait  picture  of  "The  Sur- 
render of  Breda." 


THE  GREAT  PORTRAIT-PAINTERS.  163 

The  Governor  of  the  town  is  presenting  its  keys  to  the 
Marquis  Spinola,  who  (hat  in  hand)  neither  takes  them, 
nor  allows  his  late  antagonist  to  kneel.  But,  laying  his 
hand  gently  on  hLs  shoulder,  he  seems  to  say,  "  Fortune  has 
favored  me,  but  our  cases  might  have  been  reversed."  To 
paint  such  an  act  of  generous  courtesy  was  worthy  of  a 
contemporary  of  Cervantes.  It  is  not,  however,  in  the 
choice  of  the  subject,  but  in  the  manner  in  which  he  has 
brought  the  scene  before  our  eyes,  that  the  genius  and  mind 
of  Velasquez  are  shown.  The  cordial,  unaffected  bearing 
of  the  conqueror  could  only  have  been  represented  by  as 
thorough  a  gentleman  as  himself.  I  know  this  picture  but 
from  copies.  Mr.  Ford  says  of  the  original,  "  Never  were 
knights,  soldiers,  or  national  character  better  painted,  or 
the  heavy  Fleming,  the  intellectual  Italian,  and  the  proud 
Spaniard  more  nicely  marked,  even  to  their  boots  and 
breeches ;  the  lances  of  the  guards  actually  vibrate.  Ob- 
serve the  contrast  of  the  light-blue,  delicate  page,  with  the 
dark,  iron-clad  General,  Spinola,  who,  the  model  of  a  high- 
bred, generous  warrior,  is  consoling  a  gallant  but  vanquished 
enemy." 

Another  great  portrait  picture,  the  conception  of  which 
is  equally  dramatic  and  original,  is  at  Windsor  Castle.  The 
Archduke  Ferdinand  of  Austria  and  the  Prince  of  Spain, 
mounted  on  chargers,  are  directing  an  assault  in  the  battle 
of  Nortlingen.  The  conventional  manner,  sanctioned  in- 
deed by  great  painters,  of  representing  commanders  of 
armies,  whether  mounted  or  on  foot,  quietly  looking  out  of 
the  picture,  while  the  battle  rages  behind  them,  is  hero  set 
aside.  The  generals  are  riding  into  the  scene  of  action  ; 
and  yet  their  attitudes  are  so  contrived  as  sufficiently  to 
show  their  features.  Nearer  to  the  spectator  arc  half- 
length  figures,  the  end  of  a  long  line  of  steel-clad  infantry, 
diminishing  in  perspective  up  a  hill  to  the  fortress  they  are 
storming.     All  is  action ;  and  though  we  are  only  shown 


164  CHARLES  ROBERT  LESLIE. 

the  generals  and  the  common  soldiers,  yet,  as  the  horses 
of  the  former  are  in  profile,  and  have  just  come  into  the 
picture,  we  may  imagine  a  train  of  attendant  officers  about 
to  appear ;  and  though  portrait  was  the  fii-st  object  of 
Rubens,  the  picture  is  a  noble  representation  of  a  battle. 
The  conception,  as  regards  the  foot-soldiers,  has  been  im- 
itated, though  differently  applied,  by  Opie ;  and  probably 
Raphael's  composition  in  the  Vatican,  representing  David 
gazing  at  Bathsheba,  while  the  troops  of  Uriah  pass  below 
him,  suggested  it  to  Rubens. 

The  pendant  to  this  picture  is  the  group  of  Sir  Balthasar 
Gerbier,  liis  wife,  and  children  ;  wliich  Dr.  Waagen  inclines 
to  attribute  to  Vandyke.  But  the  arrangement  and  dra- 
matic connection  of  the  figures  is  entirely  free  from  the 
formality  of  Vandyke ;  and  a  comparison  of  this  fine  com- 
position with  Vandyke's  "  Cliildren  of  Charles  I."  at 
Windsor,  his  "  Pembroke  Family  "  at  "Wilton,  his  "  Earl 
and  Countess  of  Derby "  belonging  to  Lord  Clarendon, 
or  "  The  Nassau  Family "  at  Penshanger,  will  show  that 
it  is  by  Rubens. 

Perhaps  the  noblest  group  of  portraits  ever  painted,  for 
it  is  considered  the  greatest  work  of  its  class  by  Titian,  is 
that  of  the  male  part  of  the  family  of  Luigi  Comaro.  The 
fine  old  man,  whose  life  by  an  extraordinary  system  of 
temperance  was  protracted  to  a  hundred  years,  kneels  be- 
fore an  altar  in  the  open  air,  followed  by  liis  son-in-law 
and  grandcliildren,  except  the  three  youngest,  who  are 
sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  altar  playing  with  a  little  dog, 
au  incident  like  some  I  have  noticed  in  the  works  of  Ra- 
phael. Tlie  characteristic  arrangement  of  the  figures,  the 
noble  simi)licity  of  the  lines,  and  the  truth  and  power  of 
the  color,  miite  in  placing  this  picture  on  the  summit  of 
Art.  There  is  no  apparent  sacrifice  of  detail,  no  ti-ick,  that 
we  can  discover,  to  give  supremacy  to  the  heads,  which 
yet  rivet  our  attention  at  the  first  glance,  and  to  which  we 


THE  GREAT  PORTE  AIT-PAINTERS.  165 

return  again  and  again,  impressed  by  the  thought  and  mind 
in  the  countenances  of  the  elder  personages,  and  charmed 
with  the  youthful  innocence  of  the  boys.  I  have  seen  peo- 
ple, ignorant  of  the  principles  of  Art,  and  caring  little  about 
pictures,  stand  before  this  one  in  astonishment,  and  I  have 
heard  them  express  themselves  in  a  way  which  proved  that 
little  of  its  excellence  was  lost  on  them.  Fortunately  for  Eng- 
land, it  belongs  to  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Northumberland. 

There  was  a  time  when  kings,  warriors,  and  other  em- 
inent persons  were  painted,  almost  as  a  matter  of  course, 
in  devotional  attitudes.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  fashion,  and  was 
continued  to  a  later  date  than  the  close  of  Titian's  life.  But 
is  not  so  much  what  the  individual  painted  may  be  doing, 
as  its  consistency  with  his  whole  life,  and  the  look  and  man- 
ner given  him  by  the  painter,  which  interests  or  offends  us. 
The  piety  of  a  kneeling  hero  may  be  ostentatious ;  or  we 
might  happen  to  know  that  devotion  was  all  the  religion  he 
practised,  and  that  he  was  lifting  to  Heaven  hands  that  had 
been  steeped,  and  were  again  to  be  steeped,  in  innocent 
blood.  Sir  Thomas  More  was  several  times  painted  by 
Holbein,  yet  never,  that  I  recollect,  in  an  attitude  of  devo- 
tion, or  accompanied  by  any  symbol  of  that  religion  wliich 
was  the  rule  of  liis  life ;  and  what  would  the  memory  of 
More,  or  the  genius  of  Holbein,  have  gained  had  he  so 
painted  liim  ?  Raphael  flattered  Leo  tlie  Tenth,  as  he  wsis 
directed,  by  introducing  liim,  in  the  "Attila,"  as  Leo  the 
First.  But  when  he  was  to  paint  a  more  characteristic 
portrait  of  the  Pope,  he  represented  only  the  sovereign  and 
the  dilettante.  Leo  is  examining  with  a  glass  a  splendidly- 
illuminated  manuscript.  He  sits  in  a  chair  of  state,  at- 
tended, not  by  saints,  but  by  two  princes  of  the  church ; 
and  the  portrait  is,  as  all  poi-traits  should  be,  biograi)hical. 
Even  in  copies  (from  which  only  I  know  it),  I  fancy  I  see 
faint  indications  of  a  love  of  fun,  so  characteristic  of  a 
Pontiff  who  delighted  in  a  practical  joke. 


166  CHARLES  ROBERT  LESLIE. 

The  admirers  of  devotional  portrait  object  to  the  more 
modern  custom  of  indicating  the  deeds  of  the  person  repre- 
sented, as  savoring  of  vanity ;  forgetting  that  acts  of  devo- 
tion are  deeds,  and,  as  far  as  attitude  and  expression  have 
to  do  with  devotion,  the  easiest  of  all  deeds;  and  when 
consisting  in  these  alone,  the  most  criminal  of  all  vanities. 
The  only  portrait  of  that  admirable  woman  IVIargaret  Tu- 
dor, represents  her  in  a  religious  habit,  with  her  hands 
jpined  in  prayer,  and  she  could  not  have  been  so  charac- 
teristically handed  dovm  to  us  in  any  other  dress  or  attitude. 
Neither  could  Sir  Joshua's  portrait  of  General  Eliott  be 
more  happily  conceived  than  it  is.  The  key  of  the  fortress 
he  is  defending  is  held  firmly  in  his  hand.  But  commanding 
as  are  the  air  and  attitude,  they  have  nothing  of  the  vanity 
of  bravado ;  indeed,  if  what  is  most  honorable  to  the  man 
should  not  be  painted,  the  world  would  not  have  possessed 
the  noble  conception  of  Velasquez  that  has  been  described. 

What  may  be  called  masquerading  or  fancy-ball  portrait 
is  seldom  happy;  and  though  we  do  not  object  to  Sir 
Joshua's  "  Kitty  Fisher  as  Cleopatra,"  or  "  Emily  Bertie 
as  Thais,"  yet,  as  in  such  cases,  let  us  be  sure  the  assumed 
character  accords  with  the  real  one.  Sir  Thomas  LawTcnce 
made  a  sketch  of  George  the  Fourth  in  the  armor  of  tlie 
Black  Prince,  but  had  the  good  sense  not  to  carry  the 
matter  further  than  a  sketch. 

Are  portrait-painters,  it  may  be  asked,  to  paint  the  vices 
of  their  sitters?  Assuredly,  if  these  vices  exliibit  tliem- 
selves  in  the  countenance.  And  Fuseli  praises  Titian  for 
expressing  some  of  the  most  odious  individual  characteristics, 
in  portraits  that  he  selects  as  works  of  the  highest  order. 

Allan  Cunningham  accuses  Reynolds  of  flattery,  and  I 
apprehend  Sir  Joshua  was  just  as  much  of  a  flatterer  as 
Titian.  Wifh  a  vulgar  head  before  him,  he  would  not,  or 
rather  could  not,  make  a  vulgar  picture.  But  I  do  not 
believe  that  he  would  have  jnven  to  Colonel  Charteris  "  an 


THE  GREAT  POETRAIT-PAraTERS.  167 

aspect  worthy  a  President  of  the  Society  for  the  Suppression 
of  Vice,"  unless,  which  is  not  impossible,  he  had  such  an 
aspect.  In  his  whole  length  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  the 
debauchee  was  as  apparent  as  the  Prince. 

No  man  can  be  a  good  portrait-painter  who  is  not  a 
good  physiognomist.  I  do  not  mean  that  he  should  know 
Lavater  by  heart,  or  that  he  must  believe  in  all  that  phre- 
nology assumes.  But  he  must  be,  what  all  of  us  are,  in 
some  degree,  a  judge  of  character  by  the  signs  exhibited 
in  the  face.  A  few  of  the  broad  distinctions  of  physiognomy 
depend  on  the  forms  of  the  features,  but  all  its  nicer  shades 
have  far  more  to  do  with  expression ;  and  in  this,  indeed, 
the  real  character  is  often  seen  where  the  conformation  of 
the  features  seems  to  contradict  it.  Socrates  had  the  face 
and  figure  of  a  Silenus,  but  the  great  mind  of  the  phi- 
losopher must  have  been  visible,  through  the  disguise,  to 
aU  who  could  read  expression.  There  are  some  general 
and  well-known  rules  for  the  determination  of  physiognom- 
ical character,  as  far  as  it  has  to  do  with  the  shapes  of  the 
features ;  the  aquiline  nose  and  eye,  for  instance,  belong  to 
the  heroic  class,  thick  lips  to  the  sensual,  and  thin  to  tlie 
selfish;  yet  all  these  may  be  liable  to  many  exceptions; 
the  first  certainly  are ;  for  Nelson,  "Wolfe,  Turenne,  and 
many  other  heroes,  will  occur  to  our  recollection  who  had 
nothing  of  the  eagle  physiognomy.  It  is  natural  to  asso- 
ciate beauty  with  goodness,  and  ugliness  with  wickedness ; 
and  children  generally  do  this.  But  an  acquaintance  with 
the  world  soon  shows  us  that  bad  and  selfish  hearts  may 
be  concealed  under  the  handsomest  features,  and  the  highest 
virtues  hidden  under  the  homeliest ;  and  that  goodness  may 
even  consist  with  conformations  of  face  absolutely  ugly. 
We  then  begin  to  look  for  the  character  in  the  expression 
rather  than  in  the  forms  of  the  features,  and  to  distinguish 
assumed  expressions  from  natural  ones ;  and  so  we  go  on, 
and,  as  we  grow  older,  become  better  physiognomists,  though 


168  CHARLES  ROBERT   LESLIE. 

we  never  arrive  at  that  certainty  of  judgment  which  seema 
not  to  be  intended  we  ever  should. 

The  best  portrait-painters,  though  they  may  not  have 
penetrated  through  the  mask  to  all  beneath  it,  have,  by  the 
fidelity  of  their  Art,  given  resemblances  that  sometimes 
correct  and  sometimes  confirm  the  verdicts  of  historians. 
Who  can  look  at  Vandyke's  three  heads,  painted  to  enable 
Bernini  to  make  a  bust,  and  believe  all  that  has  been  said 
against  Charles  I.?  Or  who  can  look  at  Holbein's  por- 
traits of  Henry  VHI.,  and  doubt  the  worst  that  has  been 
said  of  his  selfish  cruelty  ? 

Among  the  many  excellences  of  Holbein,  his  treatment 
of  the  hands  is  not  the  least ;  and  it  is  evident  that  in  his 
whole-lengths  of  Henry,  they  are  portraits,  and  so  are  the 
legs,  and  that  the  king  stood  for  the  entire  figure  in  that 
characteristic,  but  by  no  means  gi*aceful  attitude,  in  which 
he  set  the  fashion  to  his  courtiers.  We  feel  that  we  could 
swear  to  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth,  of  such  portraits. 

Among  the  pictures  at  Hampton  Court  attributed  to 
Holbein,  few  can  be  relied  on  as  genuine.  I  cannot  be- 
lieve that  those  historical  curiosities,  "  The  Embai'kation  of 
Henry  VIII.  from  Dover,"  "The  Field  of  the  Cloth  of 
Gold,"  "  The  Meeting  of  Henry  and  Maximilian,"  or  "  The 
Battle  of  the  Spurs,"  are  liis  works ;  neither  do  I  believe 
he  painted  the  picture  that  includes  Henry,  Jane  Seymour, 
Prince  Edward,  Mary,  and  Elizabeth,  nor  the  life-sized 
whole-length  of  "The  Earl  of  Surry."  According  to  the 
general  custom  of  attributing  the  portraits  of  every  age 
to  the  greatest  master  of  that  age,  Holbein  is  made  answer- 
able for  these,  and  many  others,  greatly  inferior  to  the 
picture,  certainly  by  him,  belonging  to  the  Surgeon  Barbers' 
Company ;  a  work  rivalling  Titian  in  its  color,  and  in  the 
finely-marked  individual  character  of  the  heads.  It  i." 
remarkable  that,  although  it  has  hung  in  the  very  heart  of 


THE  GREAT  PORTRAIT-PAINTERS.  169 

London  for  more  than  three  hundred  years,  it  has  not  in 
the  least  suffered  from  smoke ;  and  if  it  has  ever  been 
cleaned,  it  has  sustained  no  injury  from  the  process.  Dr. 
Waagen  urges  the  importance  of  so  fine  a  picture  being 
removed  to  the  National  Gallery,  and  thinks  an  arrange- 
ment might  be  made  to  that  purpose,  between  the  Govern- 
ment and  the  company  that  possesses  it ;  "a  consummation 
devoutly  to  be  wished."  There  is  not  a  Holbein  iu  the 
National  Gallery. 

"While  speaking  of  this  great  painter,  I  must  not  omit 
to  notice  the  interest  given  to  his  picture  of  the  family  of 
Sir  Thomas  More,  by  making  the  background  an  exact 
representation  of  an  apartment  in  More's  house.  Tliis 
example  might  effect  a  great  improvement  in  portrait,  and 
it  would  often  be  found  easier  to  the  painter  (as  well  as 
far  more  agreeable)  to  copy  realities,  than  to  weary  him- 
self with  ineffectuat"  attempts  to  make  the  eternal  pUlar 
and  curtain,  or  the  cO|pventional  sky  and  tree,  look  as  weU 
as  they  do  in  the  backgrounds  of  Reynolds  and  Gains- 
borough. 

The  question  relating  to  the  degree  in  which  personal 
defects  are  to  be  marked  must,  in  every  case,  be  settled 
by  the  taste  of  the  painter.  Reynolds  has  not  only  shown 
that  Baretti  was  near-sighted,  but  he  has  made  that  defect 
as  much  the  subject  of  the  picture  as  the  sitter  himself, 
and  Baretti's  absorption  in  his  book  strongly  marks  the 
literary  man.  But  near-sightedness  is  not  a  deformity, 
and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Reynolds  abated  whatever 
of  malformation  he  might  not  for  the  sake  of  individu.'dity 
think  it  right  to  exclude,  and  that  he  also  invariably  softened 
harshness  of  feature  or  expression,  and  diminished  positive 
ugliness,  as  far  as  he  could  do  so  without  losing  character. 
Chantrey  did  the  same ;  but  Lawrence  softened  harshness 
BO  much  as  often  to  lose  character.  The  portraits  of  neither 
of  the  three  could  ever  be  called  ridiculously  like,  an  ex- 


170  CHARLES  ROBERT  LESLIE. 

pression  sometimes  used  in  tlie  way  of  compliment,  but  in 
reality  pointing  exactly  to  what  a  portrait  should  not  be ; 
and  WUkie  felt  this  so  much  that  he  went  to  the  other 
extreme,  and  even  deviated  into  imlikeness  in  his  portraits, 
from  the  dread  of  that  im-ideal  mode  of  representation  wliich 
excites  us  to  laugh. 

"We  imdervalue  that  which  costs  us  least  eflfbrt,  and  "West, 
while  engaged  on  a  small  picture  of  his  own  family,  little 
thought  how  much  it  would  surpass  in  interest  many  of 
his  more  ambitious  works.  Its  subject  is  the  first  visit 
of  his  father  and  elder  brother  to  his  young  wife,  after 
the  birth  of  her  second  child.  They  are  Quakers  ;  and  the 
venerable  old  man  and  his  eldest  son  wear  their  hats, 
according  to  the  custom  of  their  sect.  Nothing  can  be 
more  beautifully  conceived  than  the  mother  bending  over 
the  babe,  sleeping  in  her  lap.  She  is  wrapped  in  a  white 
dressing-gown,  and  her  other  son,  a  boy  of  six  years  old, 
is  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  chair.  West  stands  behind 
his  father,  with  his  palette  and  brushes  in  his  hand,  and  the 
silence  that  reigns  over  the  whole  is  that  of  religious  medi- 
tation, which  win  probably  end,  according  to  the  Quaker 
custom,  in  a  prayer  from  the  patriarch  of  the  family.  The 
l)icture  is  a  very  small  one,  the  engraving  from  it  being 
of  the  same  size.  It  has  no  excellence  of  color,  but  the 
masses  of  light  and  shadow  are  impressive  and  simple,  and 
I  know  not  a  more  original  illustration  of  the  often-painted 
subject,  the  ages  of  man.  Infancy,  childhood,  youth,  middle 
life,  and  extreme  age,  are  beautifully  brought  together  in 
the  quiet  chamber  of  the  painter's  wife.  Had  he  been 
employed  to  paint  these  five  ages,  he  would  perhaps  have 
given  himself  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  produce  a  work 
that  would  have  been  classical,  but,  compared  with  this, 
commonplace ;  while  he  has  here  succeeded  in  making 
a  picture  which,  being  intended  only  for  himself,  is  for  that 
reason  a  picture  for  the  whole  world ;  and  if  painters  could 


THE  GREAT  PORTRAIT-PAINTERS  171 

always  thus  put  their  hearts  into  their  work,  how  much 
would  the  general  interest  of  the  Art  be  increased ! 

Among  the  many  great  lessons  in  portrait  composition, 
by  Rembrandt,  are  "  The  Night  "Watch,"  at  Amsterdam, 
"  The  Group  of  Surgeons  assembled  round  a  Corpse,"  in 
the  Musee  at  the  Hague,  and  the  picture  which  Mr.  Smith, 
in  his  "  Catalogue  Raisonn^,"  calls  "  Ranier  Hanslo  and  his 
Mother."  A  sight  of  the  two  first  is  well  worth  a  journey 
to  Holland.  The  last  is  sometimes  described  as  "  a  woman 
consulting  a  Baptist  minister,"  and  at  others,  "a  woman 
consulting  an  eminent  lawyer,  or  an  eminent  physician." 
As  there  are  large  books  on  a  table  and  in  the  background, 
and  the  expressions  of  the  heads  are  earnest  and  serious, 
the  subject  might  be  either  of  these.  I  saw  the  picture 
(which  belongs  to  the  Earl  of  Ashburnham)  many  years 
ago,  and  have  ever  since  been  haunted  with  the  wish  to 
see  it  again.  Indeed,  I  was  about  to  make  a  day's  journey 
for  that  sole  purpose,  vhen  it  was  sent  to  London  for  sale. 
The  pei-sons  it  represents  are  unknown,  the  heads  of  neither 
are  remarkable  for  beauty,  or  any  other  interest  than  that 
marked  individuality  that  carries  with  it  a  certainty  of 
likeness ;  and  yet  it  is  a  picture  that  throws  down  every 
barrier  that  would  exclude  it  from  the  highest  class  of  Art ; 
nor  do  I  know  any  tiling  from  the  hand  of  Rembrandt  in 
which  he  appears  greater  than  in  this  simple  and  unpre- 
tending work*  I  remember  being  sui-prised  to  hear  Sir 
Thomas  Lawi'cnce  object  to  its  treatment,  that  though  the 
man  turns  towards  the  woman,  and  is  speaking  earnestly, 
while  she  is  listening  with  gi-eat  attention,  yet  they  do  not 
look  in  each  other's  faces.  I  was  surprised  that  he  should 
not  have  noticed  how  frequently  this  happens,  in  conversa- 
tions on  the  most  important  subjects,  and  oftenest,  indeed, 
in  such  co'^v  ersations.  Rembrandt  has  repeated  these  at- 
titudes and  expressions,  in  the  two  principal  personages  in 
"The  Night  Watch,"  with    the    difference  only,  that    the 


172  CHARLES  ROBERT  LESLIE. 

figures  are  walking  as  they  converse.  There  is  an  engrav- 
ing of  the  "  Hanslo  and  his  Mother "  by  Josiah  Boydell, 
which,  however,  fails  in  giving  the  breadth  of  light  on  the 
female  head,  the  color  of  which  is  as  near  to  perfection  as 
Art  ever  approached. 

The  hands  in  Rembrandt's  portraits,  as  in  those  of  Hol- 
bein, do  everything  required  of  them  in  the  most  natural 
and  expressive  way.  But  very  different  are  the  hands 
of  Vandyke,  which  have  an  affected  grace,  adopted  from 
Rubens,  though  carried  further  from  Nature,  and  which  may 
be  traced  from  Rubens  to  Coreggio.  The  hands  in  Van- 
dyke's portraits  are  always  of  one  type,  thin  and  elegant, 
with  long,  tapered  fingers.  He  was  followed  in  these  par- 
ticulars by  Lely  with  still  more  of  affectation,  who  carried 
a  corresponding  mannerism  into  his  faces,  losing  nearly  all 
individuality  in  that  one  style  of  beauty  that  was  in  fashion. 

A  nobleman  said  to  Lely,  "  How  is  it  that  you  have  so 
great  a  reputation,  when  you  know,  as  well  as  I  do,  that 
you  are  no  painter  ?  "  "  True,  but  I  am  the  best  you  have," 
was  the  answer.  And  90  it  is ;  the  best  ailist  of  the  age 
will  generally,  while  living,  have  a  reputation  equal  to  the 
greatest  that  have  preceded  him.  Lely,  however,  was  a 
painter,  and  of  very  gi-eat  merit.  His  color,  always  pearly 
and  refined,  is  often  very  channing.  He  understood  well 
the  treatment  of  landscape  as  background,  and  there  are 
some  of  his  pictures  which  I  prefer  to  sopae  pictures  by 
Vandyke. 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  remarks  that  in  general  the  greatest 
portrait-painters  have  not  copied  closely  the  dresses  of  their 
time.  Holbein,  however,  took  no  liberties  with  the  doublets, 
hose,  or  mantles  of  the  gentlemen  he  painted,  nor  with  the 
head-gear  or  kirtles  of  the  ladies ;  neither  did  Velasquez ; 
and  their  portraits  are,  therefore,  curious  records  of  fashions, 
picturesque,  and  sometimes  fantastic  in  the  extreme,  yet 
always  ti'eated  with  admirable  Art ;  and  I  confess  I  prefer 


THE  GREAT  PORTRAIT-PAINTEES.  173 

those  of  Sir  Joshua's  portraits  in  which  he  has  faithfully 
adhered  to  the  dress  of  the  sitter ;  which  is  always  char- 
acteristic, and  often  highly  so.  The  manner  in  which 
Queen  Elizabeth  covered  herself  with  jewels,  and  the 
splendor  with  which  Raleigh  decorated  his  person,  pertain 
to  biography. 

In  some  of  Vandyke's  portraits,  no  change  is  made  in 
the  dress,  while  in  many  (I  believe  the  most),  that  which 
is  stiff  and  fonnal  is  loosened,  and  alterations  are  introduced 
that  we  are  only  aware  of  when  we  compare  his  pictures 
with  exact  representations,  by  other  artists,  of  the  costume 
of  the  time.  Such  deviations  from  matter  of  fdct  were 
carried  much  further  by  Lely  and  Knellei-,  particularly  in 
their  portraits  of  ladies ;  and  the  first  adopted  an  elegant, 
but  impossible,  undress,  that  assists  the  voluptuous  expres- 
sion which  he  aimed  at,  either  to  please  a  dissolute  Court, 
or  because  it  pleased  himself ;  possibly  for  both  reasons. 

With  Kneller,  however,  the  ideal  style  of  the  dress  does 
not  affect  the  prevailing  character  he  gave  to  the  beauties 
he  painted,  who  seem  a  higher  order  of  beings  than  the 
ladies  of  Lely.  Among  the  attractions  of  the  latter  the  ex- 
pression of  strict  virtue  is  by  no  means  conspicuous,  while  it 
would  seem  profane  to  doubt  the  purity  of  the  high-born 
dames  of  Kneller.  Though,  as  a  painter,  not  to  be  com- 
pared to  Lely,  Iiis  women  seem  secured  from  moral  degra- 
dation by  an  ever-present  consciousness  of  noble  birth,  wliich 
sits  well  on  them ;  and  though  their  demeanor  is  as  studied 
as  the  grace  of  a  minuet,  it  does  not  offend  like  vulgar 
affectiition.  Fielding,  the  natural  Fielding,  greatly  ad- 
mired the  stately  beauties  of  Kneller,  at  Hampton  Court, 
and  compared  Sophia  Western  to  one  of  them.  Conscious 
that,  "  when  unadorned,  adorned  the  most,"  they  reject  the 
aid  of  jewellery,  and  are  content  with  only  so  much  assist- 
ance from  Ai-t  as  they  receive  from  well-aiTanged  draperies. 

The  great  fault  of  Lely  is  the  fanuly  likeness,  closer  than 


174  CHARLES  EGBERT  LESLIE. 

that  of  sisters,  which  forbids  our  relying  on  his  pictures 
as  portraits ;  and  this  unpardonable  fault  is  carried,  even 
further  by  Kneller,  whose  ladies  are  all  cast  in  one  mould 
of  feature  and  form,  and  all  alike  tall  to  a  degree  rare  in 
nature. 

Reynolds  adopted  something  from  both  which  he  used 
to  advantage;  but  he  did  far  more,  —  he  recovered  por- 
trait from  all  the  mannerism  that  had  accumulated  on  it, 
from  the  death  of  Vandyke  to  his  own  time,  and  restored 
it  to  truth. 

When  we  compare  his  style  with  that  of  his  master, 
Hudson,  we  are  struck  with  its  vast  superiority,  its  wide 
difference,  not  merely  in  degree,  but  in  kind ;  and  in  this 
it  would  appear  to  form  an  exception  to  what  has  generally 
been  the  case,  namely,  that  the  style  of  every  extraordinary 
genius  is  but  a  great  improvement  on  that  of  the  school  in 
which  he  was  reared.  But  it  was  not  from  Hudson,  nor 
from  his  visit  to  Italy,  that  the  Art  of  Reynolds  was  formed. 
The  seed  that  was  to  produce  fruit,  so  excellent  and  abun- 
dant, was  sown  before  he  quitted  Devonshire.  He  there 
saw,  and  probably  among  the  first  pictures  he  ever  saw, 
the  works  of  a  painter  wholly  unknown  in  the  metropolis. 
"  This  painter,"  Northcote  tells  us,  "  was  "William  Gandy,  of 
Exeter,  whom,"  he  says,  "  I  cannot  but  consider  as  an  early 
master  of  Reynolds.  He  told  me  himself  that  he  had  seen 
portraits  by  Gandy  equal  to  those  of  Rembrandt ;  one  in 
particular  of  an  alderman  of  Exeter,  which  is  placed  in  a 
public  building  in  that  city.  I  have  also  heard  him"  repeat 
some  observations  of  Gaudy's  which  had  been  mentioned 
to  hira,  and  that  he  approved  of;  one,  in  particular  was, 
that  a  picture  ought  to  have  a  richness  in  its  texture,  as 
if  the  colors  had  been  composed  of  cream  or  cheese,  and  the 
reverse  of  a  hard  and  husky  or  dry  manner."  Now  a 
eingle  precept  like  this,  falling  into  an  ear  fitted  to  receive 
it,  is  sufficient  to  create  a  style ;  while,  upon  the  inapt,  all 
the  best  instruction  that  can  be  given  is  wasted. 


THE  GREAT  PORTRAIT-PAINTERS.  175 

I  have  seen  a  portrait  by  Gandy,  which  I  should  have 
mistaken  for  an  early  work  of  Reynolds ;  and  this,  with 
what  Northcote  tells  us,  is  enough  to  establish,  in  my  mind, 
Gaudy's  claim  to  the  honor  of  being  the  first  instructor  of 
a  great  genius  whom  he  never  saw.  Gaudy's  father  was  a 
pupil  of  Vandyke ;  and  being  patronized  by  the  Duke  of 
Ormond,  and  retained  in  his  service  in  Ireland,  his  works 
were  as  little  known  in  London  as  those  of  liis  son,  w':c 
practised  only  in  Devonshire.  Thus,  while  the  style  of 
Vandyke  degenerated  through  the  hands  of  his  successor 
in  the  Capital,  till  it  was  totally  lost  in  the  beginning  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  some  of  its  best  quahties  were  pre- 
served in  remote  pai-ts  of  the  kingdom,  to  lead  to  a  splendid 
revival  of  portraiture ;  so  true  it  is  that,  however  obscured 
from  sight,  at  times,  some  of  the  links  in  the  chain  of  Art 
may  be,  still  it  is  a  chain  never  wholly  broken. 

Nothing  can  be  further  from  my  intention  than  to  lessen 
the  fame  of  Reynolds.  ^  What  I  have  stated  merely  shows 
what  indeed  we  might  be  certain  of  without  a  knowledge  of 
the  facts,  namely,  that  the  birth  of  his  Art  was  not  miracu- 
lous. Praise  enough  is  still  left  for  him  ;  for  that  which  he 
derived  from  Gaudy  was  but  the  medium  of  his  own  fasci- 
nating conceptions  of  Nature.  "  There  is  a  charm,"  says 
Northcote,  "  in  his  portraits,  a  mingled  softness  and  force, 
a  grasping  at  the  end,  mth  notliing  harsh  or  unpleasant  in 
the  means,  that  you  will  find  nowhere  else.  He  may  go 
out  of  fashion  for  a  time,  but  you  must  come  back  to  him 
again,  while  a  thousand  imitators  and  academic  triflers  are 
forgotten." 

In  looking  over  prints  from  his  works,  we  are  astonished 
at  the  many  attitudes  and  incidents  we  find  new  to  Art, 
and  yet  often  such  as  from  their  very  familiarity  in  life 
have  been  overloked  by  other  painters.  The  three  Ladies 
Waldegrave,  one  winding  silk  from  the  hands  of  another, 
while  the  third  is  bending  over  a  drawing,  'Mrs.  Abington 


176  CHARLES  ROBEET  LESLIE. 

leaning  on  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  Lady  Fenoulhet  with 
her  hands  in  a  muff,  for  instance ;  and  then  the  many  ex- 
quisitely natiiral  groupings  of  mothers  and  children,  and  of 
children  with  children  ;  how  greatly  sujierior  in  interest  are 
such  conceptions,  fresh  from  Nature,  to  some  of  his  inven- 
tions, —  as  of  ladies  sacrificing  to  the  Graces,  or  decorating 
a  statue  of  Hymen,  of  which  indeed  he  made  fine  pictures 
(for  that  he  could  not  help),  but  pictures  the  impression  of 
which  is  comparatively  languid. 

In  the  collected  works  of  no  other  portrait-painter  do  we 
find  so  great  a  diversity  of  individual  character  illustrated 
by  so  great  a  variety  of  natural  incident,  or  aided  by  such 
various  and  well-chosen  effects  of  light  and  shadow ;  many 
entirely  new  to  Art,  as,  for  instance,  the  partial  shadows 
thrown  by  branches  of  trees  over  whole-length  figures.  In- 
deed, by  no  other  painter,  except  Gainsborough,  has  land- 
scape been  so  beautifully  or  effectively  brought  in  aid  of 
portrait.  Vandyke  generally  subdues  its  brightness  to  give 
supremacy  to  the  head,  and  Lely  and  Kneller  did  this  still 
more ;  but  Reynolds,  without  lessening  its  power,  always 
contrived  it  so  as  to  relieve  the  face  most  effectively. 

We  may  learn  nearly  everything  relating  to  portrait  from 
Reynolds.  Those  deviations  from  the  exact  correspondence 
of  the  sides  of  the  face  which  are  so  common  in  Nature 
are  never  corrected  by  him,  as  they  sometimes  are  by  in- 
ferior ailists  imder  the  notion  of  improving  the  drawing. 
He  felt  that  a  marked  difference  in  the  lines  surrounding 
the  eyes  often  greatly  aids  the  expression  of  the  face.  He 
took  advantage  of  this  in  painting  the  fixed  despair  of 
Ugolino,  no  doubt  finding  it  in  the  model ;  and  in  a  very 
different  head,  his  front  face  of  Garrick,  he  has,  by  obsendng 
the  difference  of  the  eyes,  given  great  archness  of  expres- 
sion, and  assisted  its  inteUigence  without  making  the  face 
less  handsome. 

It  has  been  said,  and  I  believe  it,  that  no  painter  can 


THE  GREAT  PORTRAIT-PAINTERS.  177 

put  more  sense  into  a  head  than  he  possesses  himself,  and 
it  must  have  been  rai'e  for  Reynolds  to  meet  with  an  in 
tellect  superior  to  his  own.  Had  we  no  other  evidence,  that 
of  Goldsmith,  who  knew  him  well,  was  a  close  observer,  and 
no  flatterer,  would  be  conclusive  :  — 

"  Here  Keynolds  is  laid,  and  to  tell  you  my  mind. 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind." 

But  his  portraits  were  not  always  so  satisfactory  to  his 
sitters  as  the  works  of  inferior  painters.  The  truth  is, 
sitters  are  no  judges  of  their  own  likenesses,  and  in  their 
immediate  family  circle  the  best  judges  are  not  always  to 
be  found.  Lord  Thurlow  said,  "  There  are  two  factions, 
the  KejTiolds  faction  and  the  Romney  faction.  I  am  of 
the  Romney  faction."  Now  in  Romney's  whole-length  the 
Chancellor  appeared  a  more  handsome  man  than  in  the 
half-length  of  Reynolds.  Romney  avoided  all  indication 
of  the  suppressed  temper  that  was  so  apt  to  explode  in 
violent  paroxysms,  and  this  rendered  his  picture  more  ac- 
ceptable to  the  original.  But  he  missed  what  Reynolds 
alone  could  give,  —  that  extraordinary  sapience  wliich  made 
Charles  Fox  say,  "  No  man  could  be  so  wise  as  Lord  Thur- 
low looked." 

That  the  portraits  of  Reynolds  were  the  best  of  all  like- 
nesses, I  have  no  manner  of  doubt.  I  know  several  of  his 
pictures  of  children,  the  originals  of  whom  I  have  seen  in 
middle  and  old  age,  and  in  every  instance  I  could  discover 
much  likeness.  He  painted  Lord  Melbourne  when  a  boy, 
and  with  that  genuine  laugh  that  was  so  characteristic  of 
the  future  Prime  Minister  at  every  period  of  his  life  ;  and 
no  likeness  between  a  cliild  and  a  man  of  sixty  (an  age  at 
which  I  remember  Lord  Melbourne)  was  ever  more  strik- 
ing. Lord  Melbourne  recollected  that  Sir  Joshua  bribed 
him  to  sit,  by  giving  him  a  ride  on  his  foot,  and  said,  "  If 
you  behave  well,  you  shall  have  another  ride." 
12 


178  CHARLES  ROBERT  LESLIE. 

His  fondness  of  children  is  recorded  on  all  his  canvases 
in  which  they  appear.  A  matchless  picture  of  Miss  Bowls, 
a  beautiful  laughing  child  caressing  a  dog,  was  sold  a  few 
years  ago  at  auction,  and  cheaply,  at  a  thousand  guineas. 
The  father  and  mother  of  the  little  girl  intended  she  shoOld 
sit  to  Romney,  who  at  one  time  more  than  divided  the 
town  with  Reynolds.  Sir  George  Beaumont,  however, 
advised  them  to  employ  Sir  Joshua.  "  But  his  pictures 
fade."  "No  matter,  take  the  chance;  even  a  faded  pic- 
ture by  Reynolds  will  be  the  finest  thing  you  can  have. 
Ask  him  to  dine  with  you ;  and  let  him  become  acquainted 
with  her."  The  advice  was  taken  ;  the  little  girl  was  placed 
beside  Sir  Joshua  at  the  table,  where  he  amused  her  so 
much  with  tricks  and  stories  that  she  thought  him  the 
most  charming  man  in  the  world,  and  the  next  day  was 
delighted  to  be  taken  to  his  house,  where  she  sat  down  with 
a  face  full  of  glee,  the  expression  of  which  he  caught  at 
once  and  never  lost ;  and  the  affair  turned  out  every  way 
happily,  for  the  picture  did  not  fade,  and  has  till  now 
escaped  alike  the  inflictions  of  time  or  of  the  ignorant 
among  cleaners. 

Doubts  have  been  expressed  of  the  sincerity  of  Sir 
Joshua's  great  admiration  of  JVIichael  Angelo.  Had  he, 
on  his  return  from  Italy,  undertaken  to  decorate  a  church 
(supposing  an  opportunity)  with  imitations  of  the  Sistine 
ceiling,  I  should  doubt  his  appreciation  of  the  great  works 
that  cover  it.  But  a  painter  may  sincerely  admire  Art 
very  different  from  his  own ;  and  I  rest  my  belief  of  his 
full  appreciation  of  ^Michael  Angelo  less  on  his  "  Tragic 
Muse  "  (Mrs.  Siddons)  or  his  "  Ugolino,"  both  of  which  we 
may  in  some  degree  trace  among  the  conceptions  in  the 
Sistine  Chapel,  than  to  that  general  greatness  and  grace 
of  stylo  stamped  on'  all  his  works.  "  Reynolds,"  says 
Sterne,  "  great  and  graceful  as  he  paints  " ;  nor  could  hia 
Art  be  so  well  characterized  by  any  other  two  words. 


THE  GREAT  PORTRAIT-PAINTERS.  179 

It  has  buen  more  than  once  intimated  that  Reynolds 
cared  for  no  other  artist's  success.  But  if  this  were  the 
case,  why  did  he  take  the  trouble  to  write  and  deliver  his 
discourses?  in  wliich  he  did  not  fail  to  give  all  the  in- 
struction he  could  convey,  by  words,  in  his  own  branch  of 
the  Art,  as  well  as  in  those  which  he  considered  higher. 
He  was  daily  accessible  to  all  young  artists  who  sought  his 
advice,  and  readily  lent  them  the  finest  of  his  own  works ; 
but  in  doing  this  he  always  said  to  the  portrait-painter,  "  It 
will  be  better  for  you  to  study  Vandyke."  It  is  clear,  that, 
though  he  felt  his  own  superiority  among  his  contemporaries, 
he  had  a  belief  that  British  Art  was  advancing,  and  that 
he  should  be  surpassed  by  future  painters ;  like  the  belief 
in  which  Shakespeare  supposes  an  ideal  mistress  to  say  of 
himself,  — 

"But  since  he  died,  and  poets  better  prove," 

for  Reynolds,  like  all  men  of  the  loftiest  minds,  was  modest. 
IVIrs.  Bray,  in  her  "  Life  of  Stothard,"  says,  with  great  truth, 
of  the  modesty  of  such  men,  that  it  "  is  not  at  all  inconsistent 
with  that  strong  internal  conviction,  which  every  man  of  real 
merit  possesses,  respecting  his  own  order  of  cajiacity.  He 
feels  that  Nature  has  given  him  a  stand  on  liiglier  ground 
than  most  of  his  contemporaries ;  but  he  does  not  look  down 
on  them,  but  above  himself.  Wliat  he  does  is  great,  but  he 
still  feels  that  greatness  has  a  spirit  which  is  ever  mounts 
ing,  —  that  rests  on  no  summit  within  mortal  view,  but 
soars  again  and  again  in  search  of  an  ideal  height  on  Avliich 
iK)  pause  and  fold  its  wings." 

Gainsborough  was  the  most  formidable  rival  of  Reynolds. 
Whether  he  felt  it  hopeless  to  make  use  of  Sir  Joshua's 
weapons,  or  whether  his  peculiar  taste  led  liim  to  the 
choice  of  other  means;  he  adopted  a  system  of  chiaro- 
scuro, of  more  frequent  occurrence  in  Nature  than  those 
extremes  of  light  and  dark  which  Reynolds  managed  with 


180  CHARLES  EGBERT  Li^SLIE. 

Buch  consummate  judgment.  His  range  in  poi-trait  was 
more  limited,  but  within  that  range  he  is  at  times  so  de- 
lightful that  we  should  not  feel  inclined  to  exchange  a  head 
by  him  for  a  head  of  the  same  person  by  Sir  Joshua.  His 
men  are  as  thoroughly  gentlemen,  and  his  women  as  en- 
tirely ladies,  nor  had  Reynolds  a  truer  feeling  of  the  charms 
of  infancy.  Indeed  his  cottage  children  are  more  interest- 
ing because  more  natural  than  the  "  Robinettas  "  and  "  Mus- 
dpulas"  of  his  illustrious  rival,  the  only  class  of  pictures 
by  Reynolds  in  which  mannerism  in  expression  and  attitude 
obtrudes  itself  in  the  place  of  what  is  natural.  Gains- 
borough's barefoot  child  on  her  way  to  the  weU,  with  her 
little  dog  under  her  arm,  is  unequalled  by  anything  of  the 
kind  in  the  world.  I  recollect  it  at  the  British  Gallery, 
forming  part  of  a  very  noble  assemblage  of  pictures,  and 
I  could  scarcely  look  at  or  think  of  anything  else  in  the 
rooms.  Tliis  inimitable  work  is  a  portrait,  and  not  of  a 
peasant  child,  but  of  a  young  lady,  who  appears  also  in  his 
picture  of  the  girl  and  pigs,  which  Sir  Joshua  purchased. 

That  Reynolds  and  Gainsborough  were  not  on  terms  of 
friendship  seems  to  have  been  the  fault  of  the  latter,  who, 
with  all  his  excellent  qualities,  had  not  so  equable  a  temper 
as  Sir  Joshua.  RejTiolds  did  not,  as  Allan  Cunningham 
intimates,  wait  till  the  death  of  Gainsborough  to  do  justice 
to  his  genius.  The  brief  allusion  to  their  last  interview  in 
his  fourteenth  discourse,  which  is  as  modest  as  it  is  toucliing, 
proves  that  he  had  not  done  so ;  and  it  seems  clear  that  Sir 
Joshua  would  have  told  much  more,  had  it  not  been  to  his 
own  honor,  and  that  he  has  only  said  what  he  felt  necessary 
for  the  removal  of  any  charge  of  injustice  on  his  part. 

The  powers  of  Gainsborough,  in  portrait,  may  be  well 
estimated  by  that  charming  picture  in  the  Dulwich  Galleiy, 
of  "Mrs.  Sheridan  and  Mrs.  Tickell";  and  the  wliole- 
lengths  at  Hampton  Court,  of  "  Colonel  St.  Leger,"  and 
"Fisher  the  Composer." 


THE   GREAT   PORTEAIT-PAINTERS.  181 

A  painter  may  have  great  ability,  and  yet  be  inferior  to 
those  of  whom  I  have  spoken.  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  was 
perhaps  hindered  from  rising  to  the  highest  rank  as  a 
colorist  by  his  early  and  first  practice  of  making  portraits 
in  colorless  chalk  only.  His  wish  to  please  the  sitter  made 
him  yield  more  than  his  English  predecessors  had  done  to 
the  foolish  desire  of  most  people  to  be  painted  with  a  smile : 
though  he  was  far  from  extending  this  indulgence  to  that 
extreme  of  a  self-satisfied  simper  that  the  French  painters 
of  the  age  preceding  his  had  introduced  to  portrait.  Of 
indefatigable  industry,  Lawrence's  habit  of  undertaking  too 
many  pictures  at  the  same  time  was  a  serious  drawback, 
in  many  cases,  to  their  excellence.  He  began  the  portraits 
of  children  which  he  did  not  finish  till  they  were  grown  up, 
and  of  gentlemen  and  ladies  while  their  hair  was  of  its  first 
color,  but  which  remained  incomplete  in  his  rooms  till  the 
originals  were  gray.  The  most  beautiful  of  his  female 
heads,  and  beautiful  it  is,  is  the  one  he  painted  of  Lady 
Elizabeth  Leveson  Gower  (afterwards  Marchioness  of  West- 
minster). This  was  begun  and  finished  ofi'-hand;  and  so 
was  the  best  male  head  he  ever  painted,  his  first  portrait  of 
Mr.  West,  not  the  whole-length  in  the  National  Gallery,  in 
which  he  has  much  exaggerated  the  stature  of  the  original. 
He  took  especial  delight  in  painting  the  venerable  and  ami- 
able President,  who  ofiered  a  remarkable  instance  of  what 
I  liave  described  elsewhere,  the  increase  of  beauty  in  old 
age,  and  of  whom  this  portrait  is  a  work  of  great  excel- 
lence. 

Without  any  of  those  peculiar  blandishments  of  manner, 
either  as  a  painter  or  a  man,  that  contributed  to  make 
Lawrence  the  most  popular  portrait-painter  of  his  time, 
Jackson  was  more  of  an  artist,  much  truer  in  coloi",  and, 
indeed,  in  tliis  respect  approacliing  to  Reynolds,  whose 
pictures  he  sometimes  copied  so  closely  as  to  deceive  even 
Northcote.     When   liis   sitters   were   ordinary   people,   his 


182  CHARLES  ROBERT  LESLIE. 

portraits  were  often  ordinary  works ;  but  when  they  were 
notable  persons,  he  exeited  all  his  powers.  The  portrait  he 
painted  of  Canova,  for  Chantrey,  is  in  all  respects  superior 
to  that  wliich  Lawi'ence  painted  of  the  great  sculptor; 
more  natural,  more  manly,  and  much  finer  in  effect.  His 
heads  of  Sir  John  Franklin  (painted  for  Mr.  Mui-ray),  of 
Flaxman,  of  Stothard,  and  of  Listen,  are  all  admirably 
characteristic,  and  among  the  finest  portraits  of  the  British 
school ;  and  I  remember  seeing  at  Castle  Howard  his  half- 
length  of  Northcote,  hanging  in  company  with  Vandyke's 
half-length  of  Snyders,  and  a  magnificent  head  of  a  Jew 
Rabbi  by  Rembrandt,  and  well  sustaining  so  trying  a 
position.  Perfectly  amiable  in  his  nature,  nothing  pleased 
Jackson  more  than  opportunities  of  recommending  young 
painters  of  merit  to  patronage ;  and  he  introduced  WUkie 
and  Haydon  to  Lord  Mulgrave  and  Sir  George  Beau- 
mont. With  strong  natural  sense,  playful  in  his  manner, 
and  with  a  true  relish  of  humor,  Jackson  was  a  great 
favorite  with  all  who  had  the  happiness  to  know  him,  and 
his  loss,  by  an  early  death,  was  irreparable  to  his  friends, 
and  a  very  great  one  to  Art. 

The  many  advantages  in  many  ways  resulting  from 
Photography  are  yet  but  imperfectly  appreciated;  for  its 
Improvements  have  followed  each  other  so  rapidly,  that  we 
cannot  but  expect  many  more,  and  are  quite  in  the  dark 
as  to  what  may  be  its  next  wonder.  In  its  present  state  it 
confirms  what  has  always  been  felt  by  the  best  artists  and  the 
best  critics,  that  fac-simile  is  not  that  species  of  resemblance 
to  Nature,  even  in  a  portrait,  that  is  most  agreeable:  for 
while  the  best  calotypes  remind  us  of  mezzotint  engravings 
from  Velasquez,  Rembrandt,  or  Reynolds,  they  are  stUl 
inferior  in  general  effect  to  such  engravings :  and  they  thus 
help  to  show  that  tlie  ideal  is  equally  a  principle  of  por- 
trait-painting as  of  all  other  Art:  and  that  not  only  does 
this  consist  in  the  best  view  of  the  face,  the  best  light  and 


THE   GREAT  PORTRAIT-PAINTERS.  183 

shadow,  and  the  most  characteristic  attitude  of  the  figure, 
for  all  these  may  be  selected  for  a  photograpliic  picture, 
but  that  the  ideal  of  a  portrait,  like  the  ideal  of  all  Art, 
depends  on  something  which  can  only  be  communicated  by 
the  mind,  through  the  hand  and  eye,  and  without  any  other 
mechanical  intervention  than  that  of  the  pencil.  Photog- 
raphy may  tend  to  relax  the  industiy  of  inferior  painters, 
but  it  may  be  hoped  and  reasonably  expected  that  it  will 
stimulate  the  exertions  of  the  best ;  for  much  may  be  learnt 
from  it  if  used  as  a  means  of  becoming  better  acquainted 
with  the  beauties  of  Nature,  but  nothing  if  resorted  to  only 
as  a  substitute  for  labor. 


TO  AGE. 


By  WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 


WELCOIVIE,  old  friend !    These  many  yeara 
Have  we  lived  door  by  door ; 
The  Fates  have  laid  aside  their  shears 
Perhaps  for  some  few  more. 

I  was  indocile  at  an  age 

Wlien  better  boys  were  taught, 
But  thou  at  length  hast  made  me  sage, 

If  I  am  sage  in  aught. 

Little  I  know  from  other  men. 

Too  little  they  from  me, 
But  thou  hast  pointed  well  the  pen 

That  writes  these  lines  to  thee. 

Thanks  for  expelling  Fear  and  Hope, 

One  vile,  the  other  vain  ; 
One's  scourge,  the  other's  telescope, 

I  shall  not  see  again  ; 

Rather  what  lies  before  my  feet 

My  notice  shall  engage : 
He  who  hath  braved  Youth's  dizzy  heat 

Dreads  not  the  frost  of  Age. 


THE  YOUTH  OF  MAN. 

By  MATTHEW  AKNOLD. 


WE,  0  Nature,  depart : 
Thou  survivest  us :  this, 
This,  I  know,  is  the  law. 
Yes,  but  more  than  this, 
Thou  who  seest  us  die 
Seest  us  change  while  we  live ; 
Seest  our  di-eams  one  by  one, 
Seest  our  errors  depart : 

"Watchest  us.  Nature,  throughout, 
MUd  and  inscrutably  calm. 

Well  for  us  that  we  change  1 
Well  for  us  that  the  Power 
Which  in  our  morning  prime 
Saw  the  mistakes  of  our  youth, 
Sweet  and  forgiving  and  good. 
Sees  the  contrition  of  age  I 

Behold,  O  Nature,  this  pair ! 
See  them  to-night  where  they  stand. 
Not  with  the  halo  of  youth 
Crowning  their  brows  with  its  light, 
Not  with  the  sunshine  of  hope, 
Not  with  the  rapture  of  spring, 


186  MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

Wliich  they  had  of  old,  when  they  stood 

Years  ago  at  my  side 

In  this  selfsame  garden,  and  said : 

"  "We  are  young,  and  the  world  is  ours, 

For  man  is  the  king  of  the  world. 

Fools  that  these  mystics  are 

Who  prate  of  Nature !  but  she 

Has  neither  beauty,  nor  warmth. 

Nor  life,  nor  emotion,  nor  power. 

But  Man  has  a  thousand  gifts, 

And  the  generous  dreamer  invests 

The  senseless  world  with  them  all. 

Nature  is  notliing !  her  charm 
Lives  in  our  eyes  which  can  paint. 
Lives  in  our  hearts  which  can  feel ! " 

Thou,  0  Nature,  wert  mute,  — 
Mute  as  of  old :  days  flew. 
Days  and  years  ;  and  Time 
"With  the  ceaseless  stroke  of  his  wings 
Brushed  off  the  bloom  from  their  souL 
Clouded  and  dim  grew  their  eye  ; 
Languid  their  heart ;  for  Youth 
Quickened  its  pulses  no  more. 
Slowly  within  the  walls 
Of  an  ever-narrowing  world 
They  drooped,  they  grew  blind,  they  grew  old. 
Thee  and  their  Youth  in  thee. 
Nature,  they  saw  no  more. 

Murmur  of  living ! 
Stir  of  existence ! 
Soul  of  the  worla  ' 
Make,  0  make  yourselves  felt 
To  the  dying  spirit  of  Youth. 


THE  YOUTH  OF  MAN.  187 

Come,  like  the  breath  of  spring. 

Leave  not  a  human  soul 

To  grow  old  in  darkness  and  pain. 

Only  the  living  can  feel  you : 
But  leave  us  not  while  we  live. 

Here  they  stand  to-night,  — 
Here,  where  this  gray  balustrade 
Crowns  the  still  valley :  behiad 
Is  the  castled  house  with  its  woods 
Which  sheltered  their  childhood,  the  sun 
On  its  ivied  windows :  a  scent 
From  the  gray-walled  gardens,  a  breath 
Of  the  fragrant  stock  and  the  pink, 
Perfumes  the  evening  air. 
Their  children  play  on  the  lawns. 
They  stand  and  listen :  they  hear 
The  child?-en's  shouts,  and,  at  times, 
Faintly,  the  bark  of  a  dog 
From  a  distant  farm  in  the  hills : — 
Nothing  besides :  in  front 
The  wide,  wide  valley  outspreads 
To  the  dim  horizon,  reposed 
In  the  twihght,  and  bathed  in  dew, 

Cornfield  and  hamlet  and  copse 
Darkening  fast ;  but  a  light, 
Far  off,  a  glory  of  day. 
Still  plays  on  the  city  spires : 
And  there  in  the  dusk  by  the  walls, 
With  the  gray  mist  marking  its  course 
Through  the  silent  flowery  land. 

On,  to  the  plains,  to  the  sea, 
Floats  the  Imperial  Stream. 

Well  I  know  what  they  feel. 
They  gaze,  and  the  evening  wind 


188  MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

Plays  on  their  faces :  they  gaze ; 
Airs  from  the  Eden  of  Youth 
Awake  and  stir  in  their  soul : 
The  Past  returns ;  they  feel 
Wliat  they  are,  alas !  what  they  were. 

They,  not  Nature,  are  changed. 
Well  I  know  what  they  feel. 

Hush !  for  tears 
Begin  to  steal  to  their  eyes. 
Hush !  for  fioiit 
Grows  from  such  sorrow  as  theirs. 

And  they  remember 
With  piercing,  untold  anguish 
The  proud  boasting  of  their  youth. 

And  they  feel  how  Nature  was  fair. 
And  the  mists  of  delusion, 
And  the  scales  of  habit, 
Fall  away  from  their  eyes. 
And  they  see,  for  a  moment, 
Stretching  out,  like  the  Desert 
In  its  weary,  improfitable  length, 
Their  faded,  ignoble  lives 

While  the  locks  are  yet  brown  on  thy  head, 
While  the  soul  still  looks  through  thine  eyes, 
While  the  heart  still  pours 
The  mantling  blood  to  thy  cheek. 

Sink,  O  Youth,  in  thy  soul ! 
Yearn  to  the  greatness  of  Nature  I 
Rally  the  good  in  the  depths  of  thyself! 


HANNIBAL'S  MARCH  INTO  ITALY. 


By  dr.  ARNOLD. 


TWICE  in  history  has  there  been  witnessed  the  strug- 
gle of  the  highest  individual  genius  against  the  re- 
sources and  institutions  of  a  great  nation ;  and  in  both 
cases  the  nation  has  been  victorious.  For  seventeen  years 
Hannibal  strove  against  Rome ;  for  sixteen  years  Napo- 
leon Bonaparte  strove  against  England :  the  efFoi-ts  of  the 
fii-st  ended  in  Zama,  those  of  the  second  in  Waterloo. 

True  it  is,  as  Polybius  has  said,  that  Hannibal  was  sup- 
ported by  the  zealous  exertions  of  Carthage ;  and  the 
strength  of  the  opposition  to  his  policy  has  been  very  pos- 
sibly exaggerated  by  the  Roman  writers.  But  the  zeal  of 
liis  country  in  the  contest,  as  Polybius  himself  remarks  in 
another  place,  was  itself  the  work  of  his  family.  Never 
did  great  men  more  show  themselves  the  living  spirit  of 
a  nation  than  Hamilcar,  and  Hasdi-ubal,  and  Hannibal, 
during  a  period  of  nearly  fifty  years,  approved  themselves 
to  be  to  Carthage.  It  is  not,  then,  merely  tlirough  our 
ignorance  of  the  internal  state  of  Carthage  that  Hannibal 
stands  so  prominent  in  all  our  conceptions  of  the  second 
Punic  war ;  he  was  really  its  moving  and  directing  power, 
and  the  energy  of  his  country  was  but  a  light  reflected  from 
his  own.  Histoiy  therefore  gathers  itself  into  his  single 
person :  in  that  vast  tempest  which,  from  north  and  south, 
from  the  west  and  the  east,  broke  upon  Italy,  we  see  notb- 
ingr  but  Hannibal. 


190  DR.  ARNOLD. 

But  if  Hannibal's  genius  may  be  likened  to  the  Homeric 
god,  who  in  his  hatred  of  the  Trojans  rises  from  the  deep 
to  rally  the  fainting  Greeks,  and  to  lead  them  against  the 
enemy,  so  the  calm  courage  with  which  Hector  met  his 
more  than  human  adversary  in  his  country's  cause  is  no 
unworthy  image  of  the  unyielding  magnanimity  displayed 
by  the  aristocracy  of  Rome.  As  Hannibal  utterly  eclipses 
Carthage,  so  on  the  contrary  Fabius,  Marcellus,  Claudius, 
Nero,  even  Scipio  himself,  are  as  nothing  when  compared 
to  the  spirit  and  wisdom  and  power  of  Rome.  The  senate 
which  voted  its  thanks  to  its  political  enemy,  Varro,  after 
his  disastrous  defeat,  "  because  he  had  not  despaired  of  the 
Commonwealth,"  and  which  disdained  either  to  solicit  or  to 
reprove,  or  to  threaten,  or  in  any  way  to  notice  the  twelve 
colonies  wliich  had  refused  their  accustomed  supplies  of 
men  for  the  army,  is  far  more  to  be  honored  than  the  con- 
queror of  Zama.  This  we  should  the  more  carefully  bear 
in  mind,  because  our  tendency  is  to  admire  individual  great- 
ness far  more  than  national ;  and  as  no  single  Roman  will 
bear  comparison  with  Hannibal,  we  are  apt  to  muimur  at 
the  event  of  the  contest,  and  to  think  that  the  victory  was 
awarded  to  the  least  worthy  of  the  combatants.  On  the 
contrary,  never  was  the  wisdom  of  God's  providence  more 
manifest  than  in  the  issue  of  the  struggle  between  Rome 
and  Carthage.  It  was  clearly  for  the  good  of  mankind  that 
Hannibal  should  be  conquered ;  his  triumph  would  have 
stopped  the  progress  of  the  world.  For  great  men  can 
only  act  permanently  by  forming  great  nations  ;  and  no  one 
man,  even  though  it  were  Hannibal  liimself,  can  in  one  gen- 
eration effect  such  a  work.  But  where  the  nation  has  been 
merely  enkindled  for  a  while  by  a  great  man's  spirit,  tlie 
light  passes  away  ^vith  him  who  communicated  it ;  and  the 
nation,  when  he  is  gone,  is  like  a  dead  body,  to  which  magic 
power  had  for  a  moment  given  an  unnatural  life  :  when  the 
charm  has  ceased,  the  body  is  cold  and  stiff  as  before.     He 


HANNIBAL'S  MAECH  INTO  ITALY.  191 

who  gi'ieves  over  the  battle  of  Zama  should  carry  on  his 
thoughts  to  a  period  thirty  years  later,  when  Hannibal  must, 
in  the  course  of  nature,  have  been  dead,  and  consider  how 
the  isolated  Phoenician  city  of  Carthage  was  fitted  to  re- 
ceive and  to  consolidate  the  civilization  of  Greece,  or  by  its 
^  laws  and  institutions  to  bind  together  baibarians  of  every 
race  and  language  into  an  organized  empire,  and  prepare 
them  for  becoming,  when  that  empire  was  dissolved,  the 
free  members  of  the  commonwealth  of  Christian  Europe. 

Hannibal  was  twenty-six  years  of  age  when  he  was  ap- 
pointed commander-in-chief  of  the  Carthaginian  armies  in 
Spain,  upon  the  sudden  death  of  Hasdrubal.  Two  years, 
we  have  seen,  had  been  employed  in  expeditions  against  the 
native  Spaniards ;  the  third  year  was  devoted  to  the  siege 
of  Saguntum.  Hannibal's  pretext  for  attacking  it  was,  that 
the  Saguntines  had  oppressed  one  of  the  Spanish  tribes  in 
alliance  with  Carthage ;  but  no  caution  in  the  Saguntine 
government  could  have  avoided  a  quarrel,  which  their  en- 
emy was  determined  to  provoke.  Saguntum,  although  not  a 
city  of  native  Spaniards,  resisted  as  obstinately  as  if  the 
very  air  of  Spain  had  breathed  into  foreign  settlers  on  its 
soil  the  spirit  so  often,  in  many  different  ages,  displayed  by 
the  Spanish  people.  Saguntum  was  defended  like  Numan- 
tia  and  Gerona :  the  siege  lasted  eight  months ;  and  when 
all  hope  was  gone,  several  of  the  chiefs  kindled  a  fire  in  the 
market-place,  and  after  having  tlirown  in  their  most  pre- 
cious effects,  leapt  into  it  themselves,  and  perished.  Still 
the  spoil  found  in  the  place  was  very  considerable ;  there 
was  a  large  treasure  of  money,  which  Hannibal  kept  for  his 
war  expenses  ;  there  were  numerous  captives,  whom  he  dis 
tributed  amongst  his  soldiers  as  their  share  of  the  plunder; 
and  there  was  much  costly  furniture  from  the  public  and 
private  buildings,  whieh  he  sent  home  to  decorate  the  tem- 
ples and  palaces  of  Cai-thage. 

It  must  have  been  towards  the  close  of  the  year,  but 


192  DR.  ARNOLD. 

apparently  before  the  consuls  were  returned  from  Ulyria, 
that  the  news  of  the  fall  of  Saguntum  reached  Rome.  Im- 
mediately ambassadors  were  sent  to  Carthage  ;  M.  Fabius 
Buteo,  who  had  been  consul  seven-and-twenty  years  before, 
C.  Licinius  Varus,  and  Q.  Bajbius  Tamphilus.  Their  or- 
ders were  simply  to  demand  that  Hannibal  and  his  principal 
officers  should  be  given  up  for  their  attack  upon  the  allies 
of  Rome,  in  breach  of  the  treaty,  and,  if  this  were  refused, 
to  declare  war.  The  Carthaginians  tried  to  discuss  the  pre- 
vious question,  whether  the  attack  on  Saguntum  was  a 
breach  of  the  treaty ;  but  to  this  the  Romans  would  not 
listen.  At  length  M.  Fabius  gathered  up  his  toga,  as  if  he 
was  wrapping  up  something  in  it,  and  holding  it  out  thus 
folded  together,  he  said,  "  Behold,  here  are  peace  and  war ; 
take  which  you  choose ! "  The  Carthaginian  suffete,  or 
judge,  answered,  "  Give  whichever  thou  wilt."  Hereupon 
Fabius  shook  out  the  folds  of  his  toga,  saying,  "  Then  here 
we  give  you  war  "  ;  to  which  several  members  of  the  coun- 
cil shouted  in  answer,  "  With  all  our  hearts  we  welcome 
it."  Thus  the  Roman  ambassadors  left  Cartilage,  and  re- 
turned straight  to  Rome. 

But  before  the  result  of  this  embassy  could  be  known  in 
Spain,  Hannibal  liad  been  making  preparations  for  his 
intended  expedition,  in  a  manner  which  showed,  not  only 
that  he  was  sure  of  the  support  of  his  government,  but  that 
he  was  able  to  dispose  at  his  pleasure  of  all  the  military 
resources  of  Carthage.  At  his  suggestion  fresh  troops  from 
Africa  were  sent  over  to  Spain  to  secure  it  during  his 
absence,  and  to  be  commanded  by  his  own  brother,  Has- 
drubal ;  and  their  place  was  to  be  supplied  by  other  troops 
if^ised  in  Spain ;  so  that  Africa  was  to  be  defended  by 
Spaniards,  and  Spain  by  Africans,  the  soldiers  of  each 
nation,  when  quartered  amongst  foreigners,  being  cut  off 
from  all  temptation  or  opportunity  to  revolt.  So  com- 
pletely was  he  allowed  to  direct  every  military  measure, 


HANNIBAL'S  MAECH  INTO  ITALY.  193 

that  he  is  said  to  have  sent  Spanish  and  Numidian  troops 
to  garrison  Carthage  itself;  in  other  words,  this  was  a  part 
of  his  general  plan,  and  was  adopted  accordingly  by  the 
government.  Meanwhile  he  had  sent  ambassadors  into 
Gaul,  and  even  across  the  Alps,  to  the  Gauls  who  had 
so  lately  been  at  war  with  the  Romans,  both  to  obtain 
information  as  to  the  country  through  which  his  march 
lay,  and  to  secure  the  assistance  and  guidance  of  the  Gauls 
in  his  passage  of  the  Alps,  and  their  co-operation  in  arms 
when  he  should  arrive  in  Italy.  His  Spanish  troops  he  had 
dismissed  to  their  several  homes  at  the  end  of  the  last  cam- 
paign, that  they  might  carry  their  spoils  with  them,  and  teU 
of  their  exploits  to  their  countrymen,  and  enjoy,  during  the 
winter,  that  almost  listless  ease  which  is  the  barbarian's 
relief  from  war  and  plunder.  At  length  he  received  the 
news  of  the  Roman  embassy  to  Carthage,  and  the  actual 
declaration  of  war ;'  his  officers  also  had  returned  from  Cis- 
alpine Gaul.  "  The  ^natural  difficulties  of  the  passage  of 
the  Alps  were  great,"  they  said,  "  but  by  no  means  insuper- 
able ;  while  the  disposition  of  the  Gauls  was  most  friendly, 
and  they  were  eagerly  expecting  his  arrival."  Then  Han- 
nibal called  his  soldiers  together,  and  told  them  openly  that 
he  was  going  to  lead  them  into  Italy.  "  The  Romans,"  he 
said,  have  demanded  that  I  and  my  principal  officers 
should  be  delivered  up  to  them  as  malefactors.  Soldiers, 
will  you  suffiir  such  an  indignity  ?  The  Gauls  are  holding 
out  their  arms  to  us,  inviting  us  to  come  to  them,  and  to 
assist  them  in  revenging  their  manifold  injuries.  And  the 
country  which  we  shall  invade,  so  rich  in  corn  and  wine 
and  oil,  so  full  of  flocks  and  herds,  so  covered  with  flourish- 
ing cities,  will  be  the  richest  prize  that  could  be  offisred  by 
the  gods  to  reward  your  valor."  One  common  shout  from 
the  soldiers  assured  him  of  their  readiness  to  follow  liim. 
He  thanked  them,  fixed  the  .day  on  which  they  were  to  be 
i-eady  to  march,  and  then  dismissed  them. 
13 


1D1:  DR.  ARNOLD. 

In  this  interval,  and  now  on  the  very  eve  of  commencing 
his  appointed  work,  to  which  for  eighteen  years  he  had 
been  solemnly  devoted,  and  to  which  he  had  so  long  been 
looking  forward  with  almost  sickening  hope,  he  left  the 
head-quarters  of  his  army  to  visit  Grades,  and  there,  in  the 
temple  of  the  supreme  god  of  Tyre,  and  all  the  colonies  of 
Tyre,  to  offer  his  prayers  and  vows  for  the  success  of  his 
enterprise.  He  was  attended  only  by  those  unmediately 
attached  to  his  person;  and  amongst  these  was  a  Sicilian 
Greek,  SUenus,  who  followed  him  throughout  his  Italian 
expedition,  and  lived  at  his  table.  When  the  sacrifice  waa 
over,  Hannibal  returned  to  his  army  at  New  Carthage; 
and,  everything  being  ready,  and  the  season  sufficiently 
advanced,  for  it  was  now  late  in  May,  he  set  out  on  his 
march  for  the  Iberus. 

And  here  the  fulness  of  his  mind,  and  his  strong  sense  of 
being  the  devoted  instrument  of  his  country's  gods  to  de- 
stroy their  enemies,  haunted  him  by  night  as  they  possessed 
him  by  day.  In  his  sleep,  so  he  told  Silenus,  he  fancied 
that  the  supreme  god  of  his  fathers  had  called  him  into  the 
presence  of  all  the  gods  of  Carthage,  who  were  sitting  on 
their  thrones  in  council.  There  he  received  a  solemn 
charge  to  invade  Italy;  and  one  of  the  heavenly  council 
went  with  him  and  with  his  army,  to  guide  him  on  his  way. 
He  went  on,  and  his  divine  guide  commanded  him,  "  See 
that  thou  look  not  behind  thee."  But  after  a  while,  im- 
patient of  the  restraint,  he  turned  to  look  back ;  and  there 
he  beheld  a  huge  and  monstrous  form,  thick-set  all  over 
with  serpents ;  wherever  it  moved  orchards  and  woods  and 
houses  fell  crushing  before  it.  He  asked  his  guide  in  won- 
der what  that  monster  form  was?  The  god  answered, 
"  Thou  seest  the  desolation  of  Italy ;  go  on  thy  way, 
straight  forward,  and  cast  no  look  behind."  Thus,  with 
no  divided  heart,  and  with  an  entire  resignation  of  all 
personal  and  domestic  enjoyments  forever,  Hannibal  went 


HANNIBAL'S  MARCH  INTO  ITALY.  195 

forth,  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven,  to  do  the  work  of  his 
country's  god?,  and  to  redeem  his  early  vow. 

The  consuls  at  Rome  came  into  office  at  this  period  on 
the  fifteenth  of  March ;  it  was  possible,  therefore,  for  a  con- 
sular army  to  arrive  on  the  scene  of  action  in  time  to 
dispute  with  Hannibal,  not  only  the  passage  of  the  Rhone, 
but  that  of  the  Pyrenees.  But  the  Romans  exaggerated 
the  difficulties  of  his  march,  and  seem  to  have  expected  that 
the  resistance  of  the  Spanish  tribes  between  the  E)eru3  and 
the  Pyrenees,  and  of  the  Gauls  between  the  Pyrenees  and 
the  Rhone,  would  so  delay  him  that  he  would  not  reach  the 
Rhone  till  the  end  of  the  season.  They  therefore  made 
their  preparations  leisurely. 

Of  the  consuls  for  this  year,  the  year  of  Rome  536, 
and  218  before  the  Christian  era,  one  was  P.  Cornelius 
Scipio,  the  son  of  L.  Scipio,  who  had  been  consul  in  the 
sixth  3'ear  of  the  firs^  Punic  war,  and  the  grandson  of  L. 
Scipio  Barbatus,  whose  services  in  the  third  Samnite  war 
are  recorded  in  his  famous  epitaph.  The  other  was  Ti. 
Sempronius  Longus,  probably,  but  not  certainly,  the  son 
of  that  C.  Sempronius  Bla^sus  who  had  been  consul  in 
the  year  501.  The  consul's  provinces  were  to  be  Spain 
and  SicUy ;  Scipio,  with  two  Roman  legions,  and  15,600 
of  the  Italian  allies,  and  with  a  fleet  of  sixty  quinqueremes, 
was  to  command  in  Spain ;  Sempronius,  with  a  somewhat 
larger  army,  and  a  fleet  of  160  quinqueremes,  was  to  cross 
over  to  Liljbajum,  and  from  thence,  if  circumstances  fa- 
vored, to  make  a  descent  on  Africa.  A  third  army,  con- 
sisting also  of  two  Roman  legions,  and  11,000  of  the  allies, 
was  stationed  in  Cisalpine  Gaul,  under  the  praBtor,  L.  Man- 
lius  Vulso.  The  Romans  suspected  that  the  Gauls  would 
rise  in  arras  erelong;  and  they  hastened  to  send  out  the 
colonists  of  two  colonies,  which  had  been  resolved  on  before, 
but  not  actually  founded,  to  occupy  the  important  stations  of 
Placentia  and  Cremona  on  the  opposite  ]bank«  of  the  Po. 


196  DE.  ARNOLD. 

The  colonists  sent  to  each  of  these  places  were  no  fewer 
than  six  thousand ;  and  they  received  notice  to  be  at  their 
colonies  in  thirty  days.  Three  commissioners,  one  of  them 
C.  Lutatius  Catulus,  being  of  consular  rank,  were  sent  out 
as  usual,  to  superintend  the  allotment  of  lands  to  the  set- 
tlers; and  these  12,000  men,  together  with  the  praetor's 
army,  were  supposed  to  be  capable  of  keeping  the  Gauls 
quiet. 

It  is  a  curious  fact,  that  the  danger  on  the  side  of  Spain 
was  considered  to  be  so  much  the  less  urgent,  that  Scipio's 
army  was  raised  the  last,  after  those  of  his  colleague  and  of 
the  praetor,  L.  Manlius.  Indeed,  Scipio  was  still  at  Rome, 
when  tidings  came  that  the  Boians  and  Insubrians  had 
revolted,  had  dispersed  the  new  settlers  at  Placentia  and 
Cremona,  and  driven  them  to  take  refuge  at  Mutina,  had 
treacherously  seized  the  three  commissioners  at  a  confer- 
ence, and  had  defeated  the  prjetor,  L.  Manlius,  and  obliged 
him  also  to  take  shelter  in  one  of  the  towns  of  Cisalpine 
Gaul,  where  they  were  blockading  him.  One  of  Scipio's 
legions,  with  five  thousand  of  the  allies,  was  immediately 
sent  off  into  Gaul  imder  another  praetor,  C.  Atilius  Ser- 
ranus ;  and  Scipio  waited  till  his  own  army  should  again  be 
completed  by  new  levies.  Thus,  he  cannot  have  left  Rome 
tUl  late  in  the  summer ;  and  when  he  arrived  with  his  fleet 
and  army  at  the  mouth  of  the  eastern  branch  of  the  Rhone, 
he  found  that  Hannibal  had  crossed  the  Pyrenees ;  but  he 
still  hoped  to  impede  his  passage  of  the  river. 

Hannibal,  meanwhile,  having  set  out  from  New  Carthage 
with  ap  army  of  90,000  foot  and  12,000  horse,  crossed  the 
Iberus;  and  from  thenceforward  the  hostile  operations  of 
liis  march  began.  He  might,  probably,  have  marched 
through  the  country  between  the  Iberus  and  the  Pyrenees, 
had  that  been  his  sole  object,  as  easUy  as  he  made  his  way 
from  the  Pyrenees  to  the  Rhone ;  a  few  presents  and  civili- 
ties would  easUy  have  induced  the  Spanish  chiefs  to  allow 


HANNIBAL'S  MAKCH  INTO  ITALY.  197 

him  a  free  passage.  But  some  of  tlie  tribes  northward  of 
the  Iberus  were  friendly  to  Rome :  on  the  coast  were  the 
Greek  cities  of  Rhoda  and  Emporiae,  Massaliot  <;olonies, 
and  thus  attached  to  the  Romans  as  the  old  allies  of  their 
mother  city:  if  this  part  of  Spain  were  left  unconquered, 
the  Romans  would  iomaediately  make  use  of  it  as  the  base 
of  their  operations,  and  proceed  from  thence  to  attack  the 
whole  Carthaginian  dominion.  Accordingly,  Hannibal  em- 
ployed his  army  in  subduing  the  whole  country,  which  he 
effected  with  no  great  loss  of  time,  but  at  a  heavy  expense 
of  men,  as  he  was  obliged  to  carry  the  enemy's  strongholds 
by  assault,  rather  than  incur  the  delay  of  besieging  them. 
He  left  Hanno  with  eleven  thousand  men  to  retain  posses- 
sion of  the  newly-conquered  country ;  and  he  further  dimin- 
ished his  ai'my  by  sending  home  as  many  more  of  his 
Spanish  soldiers,  probably  those  who  had  most  distinguished 
themselves,  as  an  earnest  to  the  rest,  that  they  too,  if  they 
did  their  duty  well,  might  expect  a  similar  release,  and 
might  look  forAvard  to  return  erelong  to  their  homes  full  of 
spoil  and  of  glory.  These  detachments,  together  with  the 
heavy  loss  sustained  in  the  field,  reduced  the  force  with 
which  Hannibal  entered  Gaul  to  no  more  than  50,000  foot 
and  9,000  horse. 

From  the  Pyrenees  to  the  Rhone  his  progress  was  easy. 
Here  he  had  no  wish  to  make  regular  conquests  ;  and  pres- 
ents to  the  chiefs  mostly  succeeded  in  conciliating  their 
friendship,  so  that  he  was  allowed  to  pass  freely.  But  on 
the  left  bank  of  the  Rhone  the  influence  of  the  Massaliots 
with  the  Gaulish  tribes  had  disposed  them  to  resist  the  in- 
vader ;  and  the  passage  of  the  Rhone  was  not  to  be  effected 
Avithout  a  contest. 

Scipio,  by  this  time,  had  landed  his  army  near  the  east- 
em  mouth  of  the  Rhone ;  and  his  information  of  Hannibal's 
movements  was  vague  and  imperfect.  His  men  had  suf- 
fered from  sea-sickness  on  their  voyage  from  Pisa  to  the 


198  DR.  AENOLD. 

Rhone ;  and  he  wished  to  give  them  a  short  time  to  recover 
their  strength  and  spirits,  before  he  led  them  against  the 
enemy.  He  still  felt  confident  that  Hannibal's  advance 
from  the  Pyrenees  must  be  slow,  supposing  that  he  would 
be  obliged  to  fight  his  way ;  so  that  he  never  doubted  that 
he  should  have  ample  time  to  oppose  his  passage  of  the 
Rhone.  Meanwhile  he  sent  out  300  horse,  with  some 
Gauls,  who  were  in  the  service  of  the  Massaliots,  ordering 
them  to  ascend  the  left  bank  of  the  Rhone,  and  discover,  if 
possible,  the  situation  of  the  enemy.  He  seems  to  have 
been  imwiUing  to  place  the  river  on  his  rear,  and  therefore 
never  to  have  thought  of  conducting  his  operations  on  the 
right  bank,  or  even  of  sending  out  reconnoitring  parties 
in  this  direction. 

The  resolution  which  Scipio  formed  a  few  days  after- 
wards, of  sending  his  army  to  Spain,  when  he  himself  re- 
turned to  Italy,  was  deserving  of  such  high  praise,  that  we 
must  hesitate  to*  accuse  him  of  over  caution  or  needless 
delay  at  this  critical  moment.  Yet  he  was  sitting  idle  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Rhone,  while  the  Gauls  were  vainly 
endeavoring  to  oppose  Hannibal's  passage  of  the  river. 
We  must  understand  that  Hannibal  kept  his  army  as  far 
away  from  the  sea  as  possible,  in  order  to  conceal  his  move- 
ments from  the  Romans  ;  therefore  he  came  upon  the 
Rhone,  not  on  the  line  of  the  later  Roman  road  from  Spain 
to  Italy,  which  crossed  the  river  at  Tarasco,  between  Avig- 
non and  Aries,  but  at  a  point  much  higher  up,  above  its 
confluence  with  the  Durance,  and  nearly  half-way,  if  we 
can  trust  Polybius's  reckoning,  from  the  sea  to  its  confluence 
with  the  Isere.  Here  he  obtained  from  the  natives  on  the 
right  bank,  by  paying  a  fixed  price,  all  their  boats  and  ves- 
sels of  every  description  with  which  they  were  accustomed 
to  trafl&c  down  the  river :  they  allowed  him  also  to  cut  tim- 
ber for  the  construction  of  others  ;  and  thus  in  two  days  he 
«ra8  provided  with  the  means  of  transporting  his  army. 


HANNIBAL'S  MARCH  INTO  ITALY.  199 

But  finding  that  the  Gauls  were  assembled  on  the  eastern 
bank  to  oppose  his  passage,  he  sent  off  a  detachment  of  his 
army  by  night  with  native  guides,  to  ascend  the  right  bank, 
for  about  two-and-twenty  miles,  and  there  to  cross  as  they 
could,  where  there  was  no  enemy  to  stop  them.  The  woods, 
which  then  lined  the  river,  supplied  this  detachment  with 
the  means  of  constructing  barks  and  rafts  enough  for  the 
passage  ;  ttey  took  advantage  of  one  of  the  many  islands  in 
this  part  of  the  Rhone,  to  cross  where  the  stream  was 
divided ;  and  thus  they  all  reached  the  left  bank  in  safety. 
There  they  took  up  a  strong  position,  probably  one  of  those 
strange  masses  of  rock  which  rise  here  and  there  with  steep 
cliffy  sides  like  islands  out  of  the  vast  plain,  and  rested  for 
four-and-twenty  hours  after  their  exertions  in  the  march 
and  the  passage  of  the  river. 

Hannibal  allowed  eight-and-forty  hours  to  pass  from  the 
time  when  the  detachment  left  his  camp ;  and  then,  on  the 
morning  of  the  fifth  day  after  his  arrival  on  the  Rhone,  he 
made  his  preparations  for  the  passage  of  his  main  army. 
The  mighty  stream  of  the  river,  fed  by  the  snows  of  the 
high  Alps,  is  swelled  rather  than  diminished  by  the  heats  of 
summer ;  so  that,  although  the  season  was  that  when  the 
southern  rivers  are  generally  at  their  lowest,  it  was  rolling 
the  vast  mass  of  its  waters  along  with  a  startling  fulness  and 
rapidity.  The  heaviest  vessels  were  therefore  placed  on  the 
left,  highest  up  the  stream,  to  form  something  of  a  break- 
water for  the  smaller  craft  crossing  below ;  the  small  boats 
held  the  flower  of  the  light-armed  foot,  while  the  cavalry 
were  in  the  larger  vessels  ;  most  of  the  horees  being  towed 
astern  swimming,  and  a  single  soldier  holding  three  or  four 
together  by  their  bridles.  Everything  was  ready,  and  the 
Gauls  on  the  opposite  side  had  poured  out  of  their  camp, 
and  lined  the  bank  in  scattered  groups  at  the  most  accessible 
points,  thinking  that  their  task  of  stopping  the  enemy's  land- 
ing would  be  easily  accomplished.    At  length  Hannibal's 


200  DR.  ARNOLD. 

eye  observed  a  column  of  smoke  rising  on  the  farther  shore^ 
above  or  on  the  right  of  the  barbarians.  This  was  the  con- 
certed signal  which  assured  him  of  the  arrival  of  his  detach- 
ment ;  and  he  instantly  ordered  his  men  to  embark,  and 
to  push  across  Avith  all  possible  speed.  They  pulled  vigor- 
ously against  the  rapid  stream,  cheering  each  other  to  the 
•work  ;  while  behind  them  were  their  friends,  cheering  them 
also  from  the  bank ;  and  before  them  were  the  Gauls  sing- 
ing their  war-songs,  and  calling  them  to  come  on  with  tones 
and  gestures  of  defiance.  But  on  a  sudden  a  mass  of  fire 
was  seen  on  the  rear  of  this  barbarians ;  the  Gauls  on  the 
bank  looked  behind,  and  began  to  turn  away  from  the  river ; 
and  presently  the  bright  arms  and  white  linen  coats  of  the 
African  and  Spanish  soldiers  appeared  above  the  bank, 
breaking  in  upon  the  disorderly  line  of  the  Gaids.  Hanni- 
bal himself,  who  was  with  the  party  crossing  the  river, 
leaped  on  shore  amongst  the  first,  and  forming  his  men  as 
fast  as  they  landed,  led  them  instantly  to  the  charge.  But 
the  Gauls,  confused  and  be^vildered,  made  little  resistance ; 
they  fled  in  utter  rout ;  whilst  Hannibal,  not  losing  a  mo- 
ment, sent  bade  his  vessels  and  boats  for  a  fresh  detachment 
of  his  army ;  and  before  night  his  whole  force,  with  the 
exception  of  his  elephants,  was  safely  established  on  the 
eastern  side  of  the  Rhone. 

As  the  river  was  no  longer  between  him  and  the  enemy, 
Hannibal  early  on  the  next  morning  sent  out  a  party  of 
Numidian  cavalry  to  discover  the  position  and  number  of 
Scipio's  forces,  and  then  called  his  army  together,  to  see  and 
hear  the  communications  of  some  chiefs  of  the  Cisalpine 
Gauls,  who  were  just  arrived  from  the  other  side  of  the 
Alps.  Theu"  words  were  explained  to  the  Africans  and 
Spaniards  in  the  army  by  interpreters ;  but  the  very  sight 
of  the  chiefs  was  itself  an  encouragement ;  for  it  told  the 
Boldiers  that  the  communication  with  Cisalpine  Gaul  was 
not  impracticable,  and  that  the  Gauls  had   undertaken  so 


HANNIBAL'S  MARCH  INTO  ITALY.  201 

long  a  journey  for  tlie  purpose  of  obtaining  the  aid  of  tlie 
Carthaginian  army,  against  their  old  enemies,  the  Romans. 
Besides,  the  interpreters  explained  to  the  soldiers  that  the 
chiefs  undertook  to  guide  them  into  Italy  by  a  short  and 
safe  route,  on  which  they  would  be  able  to  find  provisions ; 
and  spoke  strongly  of  the  great  extent  and  richness  of  Italy, 
when  they  did  arrive  there,  and  how  zealously  the  Gauls 
would  aid  them.  Hannibal  then  came  forward  himself  and 
addressed  his  army :  their  work,  he  said,  was  more  than  half 
accomplished  by  the  passage  of  the  Rhone ;  their  own  eyes 
and  ears  had  witnessed  the  zeal  of  their  Gaulish  allies  in 
their  cause ;  for  the  rest,  their  business  was  to  do  their  duty, 
and  obey  his  orders  implicitly,  leaving  everything  else  to 
him.  The  cheers  and  shouts  of  the  soldiers  again  satisfied 
him  how  fully  he  might  depend  upon  them;  and  he  then 
addressed  his  prayers  and  vows  to  the  gods  of  Carthage, 
imploring  them  to  w»tch  over  the  anny,  and  to  prosper  its 
work  to  the  end,  as  they  had  prospered  its  beginning.  The 
soldiers  were  now  disnaissed,  with  orders  to  prepare  for 
their  march  on  the  morrow. 

Scarcely  was  the  assembly  broken  up,  when  some  of  the 
Numidians  who  had  been  sent  out  in  the  morning  were 
seen  riding  for  their  lives  to  the  camp,  manifestly  in  flight 
from  a  victorious  enemy.  Not  half  of  the  origiaal  party 
.returned ;  for  they  had  fallen  in  with  Scipio's  detachment  of 
Roman  and  Gaulish  horse,  and,  after  an  obstinate  conflict, 
had  been  completely  beaten.  Presently  after,  the  Roman 
hoi'semen  appeared  in  pursuit ;  but  when  they  observed  the 
Carthaginian  camp,  they  wheeled  about  and  rode  off,  to 
carry  back  word  to  their  general.  Then  at  last  Scipio  put 
his  army  in  motion,  and  ascended  the  left  bank  of  the  river 
to  find  and  engage  the  enemy.  But  when  he  arrived  at  tho 
spot  where  his  cavalry  had  seen  the  Carthaginian  camp,  he 
found  it  deserted,  and  was  told  that  Hannibal  had  been  gone 
three  days,  having  marched  northwards,  ascending  the  left 


202  DR.  ARNOLD. 

bank  of  the  river.  To  follow  him  seemed  desperate :  it  was 
plunging  into  a  country  wholly  unknown  to  the  Romans, 
where  they  had  neither  allies  nor  guides,  nor  resources  of 
any  kind ;  and  where  the  natives,  over  and  above  the  com- 
mon jealousy  felt  by  all  barbarians  towards  a  foreign  army, 
were  likely,  as  Gauls,  to  regard  the  Romans  with  peculiar 
hostihty.  But  if  Hannibal  could  not  be  followed  now,  he 
might  easily  be  met  on  his  first  arrival  in  Itj Jy ;  from  the 
mouth  of  the  Rhone  to  Pisa  was  the  chord  of  a  circle,  while 
Hannibal  was  going  to  make  a  long  circuit;  and  the  Ro- 
mans had  an  army  already  in  Cisalpine  Gaul;  while  the 
enemy  would  reach  the  scene  of  action  exhausted  with  the 
i'atigues  and  privations  of  his  march  across  the  Alps.  Ac- 
cordingly, Scipio  descended  the  Rhone  again,  embarked  his 
ai'iny  and  sent  it  on  to  Spain  under  the  command  of  his 
brother,  Cnajus  Scipio,  as  liis  lieutenant ;  while  he  himself 
in  his  own  ship,  sailed  for  Pisa,  and  immediately  crossed 
the  Apennines  to  take  the  command  of  the  forces  of  the  two 
praetors,  Manlius  and  Atilius,  who,  as  we  have  seen,  had  an 
army  of  about  25,000  men,  over  and  above  the  colonists  of 
Placentia  and  Cremona,  still  disposable  in  Cisalpine  Gaul. 

Tliis  resolution  of  Scipio  to  send  his  own  army  on  to 
Spain,  and  to  meet  Hannibal  with  the  army  of  the  two  prae- 
tors, appears  to  show  that  he  possessed  the  highest  qualities 
of  a  general,  which  involve  the  wisdom  of  a  statesman  no 
less  than  of  a  soldier.  As  a  mere  military  question,  his 
calculation,  though  baffled  by  the  event,  was  sound ;  but  if 
we  view  it  in  a  higher  light,  the  importance  to  the  Romans 
of  retaining  their  hold  on  Spain  would  have  justified  a  far 
greater  hazard ;  for  if  the  Carthaginians  were  suffered  to 
consolidate  their  dominion  in  Spain,  and  to  avail  themselves 
of  its  immense  resources,  not  in  money  only,  but  in  men,  the 
hardiest  and  steadiest  of  barbarians,  and,  under  the  training 
of  such  generals  as  Hannibal  and  his  brother,  equal  to  the 
best  soldiers  in  the  world,  the  Romans  would  hardly  have 


HANNIBAL'S  MARCH  INTO  ITALY.  203 

been  able  to  maintain  the  contest.  Had  not  P.  Scipio  then 
despatched  his  army  to  Spain  at  this  critical  moment,  instead 
of  carrying  it  home  to  Italy,  his  son  in  all  probability  would, 
never  have  won  the  battle  of  Zama. 

Meanwhile  Hannibal,  on  the  day  after  the  skirmish  with 
Scipio's  horse,  had  sent  forward  his  infantry,  keeping  the 
cavalry  to  cover  his  operations,  as  he  still  expected  the  Ro- 
mans to  pursue  him ;  whUe  he  himself  waited  to  super- 
intend the  passage  of  the  elephants.  These  were  thirty- 
seven  in  number ;  and  their  dread  of  the  water  made  their 
transport  a-  very  difficult  operation.  It  was  ejSected  by 
fastening  to  the  bank  large  rafts  of  200  feet  in  length,  cov- 
ered carefuUy  with  earth :  to  the  end  of  these  smaller  rafts 
were  attached,  covered  with  earth  in  the  same  manner,  and 
with  towing  lines  extended  to  a  number  of  the  largest  barks, 
which  were  to  tow  them  over  the  stream.  The  elephants, 
two  females  leading  ^he  way,  were  brought  upon  the  rafts 
by  their  drivers  without  difficulty ;  and  as  soon  as  they 
came  upon  the  smaller  rafts,  these  were  cut  loose  at  once 
from  the  larger,  and  towed  out  into  the  middle  of  the  river. 
Some  of  the  elephants,  in  their  terror,  leaped  overboard, 
and  drowned  their  drivers ;  but  they  themselves,  it  is  said, 
held  their  huge  trunks  above  water,  and  struggled  to  the 
shore ;  so  that  the  whole  thirty-seven  were  landed  in  safety. 
Then  Hannibal  called  in  his  cavalry,  and  covering  liis 
march  with  them  and  with  the  elephants,  set  forward  up 
the  left  bank  of  the  Rhone  to  overtake  the  infantry. 

In  four  days  they  reached  the  spot  where  the  Iscre,  com- 
ing down  from  the  main  Alps,  brings  to  the  Rhone  a  stream 
hardly  less  full  or  mighty  than  his  own.  In  the  plains 
above  the  confluence  two  Gaulish  brothers  were  contending 
which  should  be  chief  of  their  tribe ;  and  the  elder  called 
in  the  sti'anger  general  to  support  his  cause.  Hannibal 
readily  complied,  established  hun  firmly  on  the  throne,  and 
received  imp*>rtaut  aid  from  him  in  return.     He  supplied 


204  DR.  ARNOLD. 

the  Carthaginian  army  plentifully  with  provisions,  furnished 
them  with  new  arms,  gave  them  new  clothing,  especially 
shoes,  which  were  found  very  useful  in  the  subsequent 
march,  and  accompanied  them  to  the  first  entrance  on  the 
mountain  country,  to  secure  them  from  attacks  on  the  part 
of  his  countrymen. 

The  attentive  reader,  who  is  acquainted  with  the  geogra- 
phy of  the  Alps  and  their  neighborhood,  -will  perceive  that 
this  account  of  Hannibal's  march  is  vague.  It  does  not 
appear  whether  the  Carthaginians  ascended  the  left  bank  of 
the  Isere  or  the  right  bank ;  or  whether  they  continued  to 
ascend  the  Rhone  for  a  time,  and,  leaving  it  only  so  far  as  to 
avoid  the  great  angle  which  it  makes  at  Lyons,  rejoined  it 
again  just  before  they  entered  the  mountain  coimtry,  a  little 
to  the  left  of  the  present  road  from  Lyons  to  Chamberri. 
But  these  uncertainties  cannot  now  be  removed,  because 
Polybius  neither  possessed  a  sufficient  knowledge  of  the 
bearings  of  the  country,  nor  sufficient  liveliness  as  a  painter, 
to  describe  the  line  of  the  march  so  as  to  be  clearly  recog- 
nized. I  believe,  however,  that  Hannibal  crossed  the  Isere, 
and  continued  to  ascend  the  Rhone ;  and  that  afterwards, 
striking  off  to  the  right  across  the  plains  of  Dauphine,  he 
reached  what  Polybius  calls  the  first  ascent  of  the  Alps,  at 
the  northern  extremity  of  that  ridge  of  limestone  moun- 
tains, which,  rising  abruptly  from  the  plain  to  the  height  of 
4,000  or  5,000  feet,  and  filling  up  the  whole  space  between 
the  Rhone  at  Belley  and  the  Isere  below  Grenoble,  first 
introduces  the  traveller  coming  from  Lyons  to  the  remark- 
able features  of  Alpine  scenery. 

At  the  end  of  the  lowland  country,  the  Gaulish  chief,  who 
had  accompanied  Hannibal  thus  far,  took  leave  of  him :  his 
influence  probably  did  not  extend  to  the  Alpine  valleys; 
and  the  mountaineers,  far  from  respecting  his  safe-conduct,  » 
might  be  in  the  habit  of  making  phmdering  inroads  on  his 
own  territory.     Here   then  Hannibal  was  left  to  himself; 


HANNIBAL'S  MARCH  INTO  ITALY.  205 

and  lie  found  that  the  natives  were  prepared  to  beset  his 
passage.  They  occupied  all  such  points  as  commanded  the 
road ;  which,  as  lisual,  was  a  sort  of  terrace  cut  in  the 
mountain-side,  ovei'hanging  the  valley  whereby  it  pene- 
trated to  the  central  ridge.  But  as  the  mountain  line  is  of 
no  great  breadth  here,  the  natives  guarded  the  defile  only 
by  day,  and  withdrew  when  night  came  on  to  their  own 
homes,  in  a  town  or  village  among  the  mountains,  and  lying 
in  tlie  valley  behind  them.  Hannibal,  having  learnt  this 
from  some  of  his  Gaulish  guides  whom  he  sent  among  them, 
encamped  in  their  sight  just  below  the  entrance  of  the  de- 
file ;  and  as  soon  as  it  was  dusk,  he  set  out  with  a  detach- 
ment of  light  troops,  made  his  way  through  the  pass,  and 
occupied  the  positions  which  the  barbarians,  after  their  usual 
practice,  had  abandoned  at  the  approach  of  night. 

Day  dawned;  the  main  army  broke  up  from  its  camp, 
and  began  to  enter  fthe  defile ;  while  the  natives,  finding 
their  positions  occupied  by  the  enemy,  at  first  looked  on  qui- 
etly, and  offered  no  disturbance  to  the  march.  But  when 
they  saw  the  long  narrow  line  of  the  Carthaginian  army 
winding  along  the  steep  mountain-side,  and  the  cavalry  and 
baggage-cattle  struggling  at  every  step  ■nath  the  difficulties 
of  the  road,  the  temptation  to  plunder  was  too  strong  to  be 
resisted ;  and  from  many  points  of  the  mountain  above  the 
road  they  rushed  down  upon  the  Carthaginians.  The  con- 
fusion wjis  terrible :  for  the  road  or  track  was  so  narrow, 
that  the  least  crowd  or  disorder  pushed  the  heavily  loaded 
baggage-cattle  down  the  steep  below ;  and  the  horses, 
wounded  by  the  barbarians'  missiles,  and  plunging  about 
wildly  in  their  pain  and  terror,  increased  the  mischief.  At 
last  Hannibal  was  obliged  to  charge  down  from  his  position, 
which  commanded  the  whole  scene  of  confusion,  and  to 
drive  the  barbarians  off.  This  he  effected ;  yet  the  conflict 
of  so  many  men  on  the  nan-ow  road  made  the  disorder 
worse  for  a  time ;  and  he  unavoidably  occasioned  the  de- 


206  DR.  ARNOLD. 

struction  of  many  of  Ms  own  men.  At  last,  the  barbarians 
being  quite  beaten  off,  the  army  womid  its  way  out  of  the 
defile  in  safety,  and  rested  in  the  wide  and  rich  valley  which 
extends  from  the  lake  of  Bourget,  Avith  scarcely  a  percep- 
tible change  of  level,  to  the  Isere  at  Montmeillan.  Hanni- 
bal meanwhile  attacked  and  stormed  the  town,  which  was 
the  barbarians'  principal  stronghold ;  and  here  he  not  only 
recovered  a  great  many  of  his  own  men,  horses,  and  bag- 
gage-cattle, but  also  found  a  large  supply  of  corn  and  cattle 
belonging  to  the  barbarians,  which  he  immediately  made 
use  of  for  the  consumption  of  his  soldiers. 

In  the  plain  wliich  he  had  now  reached,  he  halted  for  a 
whole  day,  and  then,  resuming  his  march,  proceeded  for 
three  days  up  the  valley  of  the  Isere  on  the  right  bank, 
without  encountering  any  difficulty.  Then  the  natives  met 
liim  with  branches  of  trees  in  their  hands,  and  wreaths  on 
their  heads,  in  token  of  peace :  they  spoke  fairly,  offered 
hostages,  and  wished,  they  said,  neither  to  do  the  Cartha- 
ginians any  injury,  nor  to  receive  any  from  them.  Hanni- 
bal mistrusted  them,  yet  did  not  wish  to  offend  them ;  he 
accepted  their  terms,  received  their  hostages,  and  obtained 
large  supplies  of  cattle ;  and  their  whole  behavior  seemed 
so  trustworthy,  that  at  last  he  accepted  their  guidance,  it  is 
said,  through  a  difficult  part  of  the  country,  which  he  was 
now  approacliing.  For  all  the  Alpine  valleys  become  nar- 
rower, as  they  draw  nearer  to  the  central  chain ;  and  the 
mountains  often  come  so  close  to  the  stream,  that  the  roads 
in  old  times  were  often  obliged  to  leave  the  valley  and 
ascend  the  hills  by  any  accessible  point,  to  descend  again 
wlien  the  gorge  became  wider,  and  follow  the  stream  as 
before.  If  tliis  is  not  done,  and  the  track  is  carried  nearer 
the  river,  it  passes  often  through  defiles  of  the  most  formi- 
dable character,  being  no  more  than  a  narrow  ledge  above  a 
furious  toiTcnt,  with  cliffs  rising  above  it  absolutely  precip- 
itous, and  coming  down  on  the  other  side  of  the  torrent 


HANNIBAL'S  MARCH  INTO  ITALY.  207 

abruptly  to  the  water,  leaving  no  passage  by  which  man  or 
even  goat  could  make  its  way. 

It  appears  that  the  barbarians  persuaded  Hannibal  to 
pass  through  one  of  these  defiles,  instead  of  going  round  it ; 
and  while  his  army  was  involved  in  it,  they  suddenly,  and 
without  provocation,  as  we  are  told,  attacked  him.  Making 
their  way  along  the  mountain-sides  above  the  defile,  tliey 
rolled  down  masses  of  rock  on  the  Carthagim'ans  below,  or 
even  threw  stones  upon  them  from  their  hands,  stones  and 
rocks  being  equally  fatal  against  an  eneiny  so  entangled. 
It  was  well  for  Hannibal,  that,  still  doubting  the  barbarians' 
faith,  he  had  sent  forward  his  cavalry  and  baggage,  and  cov- 
ered the  march  with  his  infantry,  who  thus  had  to  sustain 
the  brunt  of  the  attack.  Foot-soldiers  on  such  ground  were 
able  to  move  where  horses  would  be  quite  helpless ;  and 
thus  at  last  Hannibal,  with  his  infantry,  forced  his  way  to 
the  summit  of  one  of  rthe  bare  cliffs  overhanging  the  defile, 
and  remained  there  during  the  night,  whilst  the  cavalry  and 
baggage  slowly  struggled  out  of  the  defile.  Thus  again 
baffled,  the  barbarians  made  no  more  general  attacks  on  the 
anny ;  some  partial  annoyance  was  occasioned  at  intervals, 
and  some  baggage  was  earned  off ;  but  it  was  observed  that 
wherever  the  elephants  were  the  line  of  march  was  secure ; 
for  the  barbarians  beheld  those  huge  creatures  with  terror, 
having  never  had  the  slightest  knowledge  of  them,  aud  not 
dai'ing  to  approach  when  they  saw  them. 

Without  any  further  recorded  difficulty,  the  army  on  the 
ninth  day  after  they  had  left  the  plains  of  Dauphin^  arrived 
at  the  summit  of  the  central  ridge  of  the  Alps.  Here  there 
is  always  a  plain  of  some  extent,  immediately  overhung  by 
the  snowy  summits  of  the  high  mountains,  but  itself  in 
summer  presenting  in  many  parts  a  carpet  of  the  freshest 
gi'fiss,  with  the  chalets  of  the  sheplierds  scattered  over  it, 
and  gay  with  a  thousand  flowers.  But  far  different  is  its 
aspect  through  tlie  greatest  pait  of  the  year :  then  it  is  one 


208  DR.  ARNOLD. 

unvaried  waste  of  snow ;  and  the  little  lalces,  whicli  on 
many  of  the  passes  enliven  the  summer  landscape,  are  now 
frozen  over  and  covered  with  snow,  so  as  to  be  no  longer 
distinguishable.  Hannibal  was  on  the  summit  of  the  Alps 
about  the  end  of  October  :  the  first  winter  snows  had 
already  fallen ;  but  two  hundred  years  before  the  Christian 
era,  when  all  Grermany  was  one  vast  forest,  the  climate  of 
the  Alps  was  far  colder  than  at  present,  and  the  snow  lay 
on  the  passes  all  through  the  year.  Thus  the  soldiers  were 
in  dreary  quarters ;  they  remained  two  days  on  the  summit, 
resting  ft-om  their  fatigues,  and  giving  opportunity  to  many 
of  the  stragglers,  and  of  the  horses  and  cattle,  to  rejoin 
them  by  following  their  track ;  but  they  were  cold,  and 
worn,  and  disheartened  ;  and  mountains  still  rose  before 
them,  through  wliich,  as  they  knew  too  well,  even  their 
descent  might  be  perilous  and  painful. 

But  their  great  general,  who  felt  that  he  now  stood  victo- 
rious on  the  ramparts  of  Italy,  and  that  the  torrent  which 
rolled  before  him  was  carrying  its  waters  to  the  rich  plains 
of  Cisalpine  Gaul,  endeavored  to  kindle  his  soldiers  with 
his  own  spirit  of  hope.  He  called  them  together ;  he 
pointed  out  the  valley  beneath,  to  which  the  descent  seemed 
the  work  of  a  moment.  "  That  valley,"  he  said,  "  is  Italy ;  it 
leads  us  to  the  country  of  our  friends  the  Gauls ;  and  yon- 
der is  our  way  to  Rome."  His  eyes  were  eagerly  fixed  on 
that  point  of  the  horizon ;  and  as  he  gazed,  the  distance 
between  seemed  to  vanish,  tiU  he  could  almost  fancy  tliat 
he  was  crossing  the  Tiber,  and  assailing  the  capitol. 

After  the  two  days'  rest  the  descent  began.  Hanm'bal 
experienced  no  more  open  hostility  from  the  barbarians, 
only  some  petty  attempts  here  and  there  to  plunder  ;  a  fact 
strange  in  itself,  but  doubly  so,  if  he  was  really  descending 
the  valley  of  the  Doria  Baltea,  through  the  country  of  the 
Salassians,  the  most  untamable  robbers  of  all  the  Alpine 
barbarians.     It  is  possible  that  the  influence  of  the  Insu- 


HANNIBAL'S  MAECH  INTO  ITALY.  209 

brians  may  partly  have  restrained  the  mountaineers ;  and 
partly  also  may  they  have  been  deterred  by  the  ill  success 
of  all  former  attacks,  and  may  by  this  time  have  regarded 
the  strange  army  and  its  monstrous  beasts  with  something 
of  superstitious  terror.  But  the  natural  difficulties  of  the 
ground  on  the  descent  were  greater  than  ever.  The  snow 
covered  the  track  so  that  the  men  often  lost  it,  and  fell  down 
the  steep  below:  at  last  they  came  to  a  place  where  an 
avalanche  had  carried  it  away  altogether  for  about  tlu-eo 
hundred  yards,  leaving  the  moxmtain-side  a  mere  wreck  of 
scattered  rocks  and  snow.  To  go  round  was  impossible ;  for 
the  depth  of  the  snow  on  the  heights  above  rendered  it 
hopeless  to  scale  them ;  nothing  therefore  was  left  but  to 
repair  the  road.  A  summit  of  some  extent  was  found,  and 
cleared  of  the  snow;  and  here  the  army  was  obliged  to 
encamp,  whilst  the  work  went  on.  There  was  no  want  of 
hands ;  and  every  mai>  was  laboring  for  his  life ;  the  road 
therefore  was  restored,  and  supported  with  solid  substruc- 
tions below ;  and  in  a  single  day  it  was  made  practicable  for 
the  cavalry  and  baggage-cattle,  which  were  immediately 
sent  forward,  and  reached  the  lower  valley  in  safety,  where 
they  were  turned  out  to  pasture.  A  harder  labor  was 
required  to  make  a  passage  for  the  elephants :  the  way  for 
them  must  be  wide  and  solid ;  and  the  work  could  not  be 
accomplished  in  less  than  three  days.  The  poor  animals 
suflfered  severely  in  the  interval  from  hunger ;  for  no  forage 
was  to  be  found  in  that  wilderness  of  snow,  nor  any  trees 
whose  leaves  might  supply  the  place  of  other  herbage.  At 
last  they  too  were  able  to  proceed  with  safety;  Hannibal 
overtook  his  cavalry  and  baggage ;  and  in  three  days  more 
the  whole  army  had  got  clear  of  the  Alpine  valleys,  and 
entei-ed  the  country  of  their  friends,  the  Insubrians,  on  the 
wide  plain  of  Northern  Italy. 

Hannibal  was  arrived  in  Italy,  but  with  a  force  so  weak- 
ened by  its  losses  in  men  and  horses,  and  by  the  exliausted 
H 


210  DE.  ARNOLD. 

state  of  the  survivors,  that  he  might  seem  to  Lave  accom- 
plished his  great  march  in  vain.  According  to  his  own 
statement,  which  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt,  he  brought  out 
of  the  Alpine  valleys  no  more  than  12,000  African  and 
8,000  Spanish  infantry,  with  6,000  cavalry ;  so  that  his 
march  from  the  Pyrenees  to  the  plains  of  Northern  Italy 
must  have  cost  him  33,000  men ;  an  enormous  loss,  which 
proves  how  severely  the  army  must  have  suffered  from  the 
privations  of  the  march  and  the  severity  of  the  Alpine  cli- 
mate ;  for  not  half  of  these  33,000  men  can  have  fallen  in 
battle.  With  his  army  in  this  condition,  some  period  of 
repose  was  absolutely  necessary;  accordingly,  Hannibal 
remained  in  the  country  of  the  Insubrians  till  rest,  and  a 
more  temperate  climate,  and  wholesome  food,  with  which 
the  Gauls  plentifully  supplied  him,  restored  the  bodies  and 
spirits  of  his  soldiers,  and  made  them  again  ready  for  action. 
His  first  movement  was  against  the  Taurinians,  a  Ligurian 
people,  who  were  constant  enemies  of  the  Insubrians,  and 
therefore  would  not  listen  to  Hannibal,  when  he  invited 
them  to  join  his  cause.  He  therefore  attacked  and  stormed 
their  principal  town,  put  the  garrison  to  the  sword,  and 
struck  such  terror  into  the  neighboring  tribes,  that  they  sub- 
mitted immediately,  and  became  his  allies.  This  was  his 
first  accession  of  strength  in  Italy,  the  first-fruits,  as  he 
hoped,  of  a  long  succession  of  defections  among  the  allies 
of  Rome,  so  that  the  swords  of  the  Italians  might  effect  for 
him  the  conquest  of  Italy. 


^  'N 


THE   MONK   PELIX. 

By  HENEY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

ONE  morning,  all  alone, 
Out  of  his  convent  of  gray  stone, 
Into  the  forest,  older,  darker,  grayer, 
His  lips  moving  as  if  in  prayer, 
His  head  suhken  upon  his  breast 
As  in  a  dreanj  of  rest. 
Walked  the  Monk  Felix.     All  about 
The  broad,  sweet  sunshine  lay  without. 
Filling  the  summer  air ; 
And  within  the  woodlands  as  he  trod 
The  twilight  was  like  the  Truce  of  God 
With  worldly  woe  and  care  ; 
Under  him  lay  the  golden  moss  ; 
And  above  him  the  boughs  of  hemlock-trees 
Waved,  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
And  whispered  their  Benedicites  ; 
And  from  the  ground 
Rose  an  odor  sweet  and  fragrant 
Of  the  wild-flowers  and  the  vagrant 
Vines  that  wandered. 
Seeking  the  sunshine,  round  and  round. 

These  he  heeded  not,  but  pondered 
On  the  volume  in  his  hand, 


212  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

A  volume  of  Saint  Augustine, 

Wherein  he  read  of  the  unseen 

Splendors  of  God's  great  town 

In  the  unknown  land, 

And,  with  liis  eyes  cast  down 

In  humility,  he  said  : 

« I  beUeve,  O  God, 

What  herein  I  have  read, 

But  alas !  I  do  not  understand  I  '* 

And  lo !  he  heard 

The  sudden  singing  of  a  bird, 

A  snow-white  bird,  that  from  a  cloud 

Dropped  down. 

And  among  the  branches  brown 

Sat  singing 

So  sweet,  and  clear,  and  loud, 

It  seemed  a  thousand  harp-strings  ringing. 

And  the  Monk  Felix  closed  his  book, 

And  long,  long. 

With  rapturous  look, 

He  listened  to  the  song. 

And  hardly  breathed  or  stirred, 

Until  he  saw,  as  in  a  vision, 

The  land  Elysian, 

And  in  the  heavenly  city  heard 

Angelic  feet 

Fall  on  the  golden  flag^g  of  the  street. 

And  he  would  fain 

Have  caught  the  wondrous  bird, 

But  strove  in  vain  ; 

For  it  flew  away,  away, 

Far  over  hill  and  dell. 

And  instead  of  its  sweet  singing 

He  heard  the  convent  bell 

Suddenly  in  the  silence  ringing 


THE  MONK  FELIX.  213 

For  the  service  of  noonday. 

And  he  retraced 

His  pathway  homeward  sadly  and  in  haste. 

In  the  convent  was  a  change  ! 

He  looked  for  each  well-known  face, 

But  the  faces  were  new  and  strange ; 

New  figures  sat  in  the  oaken  stalls, 

New  voices  chanted  in  the  choir ; 

Yet  the  place  was  the  same  place. 

The  same  dusky  walls 

Of  cold,  gray  stone, 

The  same  cloisters  and  belfry  and  spire. 

A  stranger  and  alone 

Among  tha.t  brotherhood 

The  Monk  Felix  stood. 

"  Forty  year!,"  said  a  Friar, 

"  Have  I  been  Prior 

Of  this  convent  in  the  wood. 

But  for  that  space 

Never  have  I  beheld  thy  face ! " 

The  heart  of  the  Monk  Felix  fell: 

And  he  answered,  with  submissive  tone, 

"  This  morning,  after  the  hour  of  Prima 

I  left  my  cell, 

And  wandered  forth  alone. 

Listening  all  the  time 

To  the  melodious  singing 

Of  a  beautiful  white  bird, 

U»til  I  heard 

The  bells  of  -the  convent  ringing 

Noon  from  their  noisy  towers. 

It  was  as  if  I  dreamed ; 


214  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

For  what  to  me  had  seemed 
Moments  only,  had  been  hours  I  ** 

"  Years  ! "  said  a  voice  close  by. 

It  was  an  aged  monk  who  spoke, 

From  a  bench  of  oak 

Fastened  against  the  wall ;  — ■ 

He  was  the  oldest  monk  of  all. 

For  a  whole  century 

Had  he  been  there, 

Serving  God  in  prayer. 

The  meekest  and  humblest  of  his  creatures. 

He  remembered  well  the  features 

Of  Felix,  and  he  said, 

Speaking  distinct  and  slow : 

"  One  hundred  years  ago, 

When  I  was  a  novice  in  tlais  place, 

There  was  here  a  monk,  fuU  of  God's  grace. 

Who  bore  the  name 

Of  Felix,  and  this  man  must  be  the  same." 

And  straightway 

They  brought  forth  to  the  light  of  day 

A  volume  old  and  brown, 

A  huge  tome,  bound 

In  brass  and  wild-boar's  hide. 

Wherein  were  written  down 

The  names  of  all  who  had  died  ' 

In  the  convent,  since  it  was  edified. 

And  there  they  found. 

Just  as  the  old  monk  said, 

That  on  a  certain  day  and  date, 

One  hundred  years  before, 

Had  gone  forth  from  the  convent  gate 

The  Monk  Felix,  and  never  more 

Had  entered  that  sacred  door. 


THE  MONK  FE^IX.  215 

He  had  been  counted  among  the  dead ! 

And  they  knew,  at  last, 

That,  such  had  been  the  power 

Of  that  celestial  and  immortal  song, 

A  hundred  years  had  passed, 

And  had  not  seemed  so  long 

As  a  single  hour  1 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE. 

By  THOMAS  DE  QUTNCEY. 

THE  little  valley  of  Easedale  is  one  of  the  most  impres- 
sive solitudes  among  the  mountains  of  the  lake  district ; 
and  I  must  pause  to  describe  it.  Easedale  is  impressive, 
first,  as  a  solitude ;  for  the  depth  of  the  seclusion  is  brought 
out  and  forced  more  pointedly  upon  the  feelings  by  the  thin 
scattering  of  houses  over  its  sides,  and  the  surface  of  what 
may  be  called  its  floor.  These  are  not  above  five  or  six 
at  the  most ;  and  one,  the  remotest  of  the  whole,  was  un- 
tenanted for  all  the  thirty  years  of  my  acquaintance  with 
the  place.  Secondly,  it  is  impressive  from  the  excessive  love- 
liness which  adorns  its  little  area.  This  is  broken  up  into 
small  fields  and  miniature  meadows,  separated  not — as  too 
often  happens,  with  sad  injury  to  the  beauty  of  the  lake 
countiy  —  by  stone- walls,  but  sometimes  by  little  hedge-rows, 
sometimes  by  little  sparkling,  pebbly  "  beck,"  lustrous  to  the 
very  bottom,  and  not  too  broad  for  a  child's  flying  leap ; 
and  sometimes  by  wild  self-sown  woodlands  of  birch,  alder, 
holly,  mountain-ash,  and  hazel,  that  meander  through  the 
valley,  intervening  the  different  estates  with  natural  sylvan 
marches,  and  giving  cheerfulness  in  winter,  by  the  bright 
scarlet  of  their  barrier.  It  is  the  character  of  all  the  north- 
em  English  valleys,  as  I  have  already  remarked,  —  and  it 
is  a  character  first  noticed  by  Wordsworth,  —  that  they 
assume,  in  their  bottom  areas,  the  level,  floor  like  shape, 


ui,.   t/cwf 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE.  217 

making  everywhere  a  direct  angle  "with  the  surrounding 
hills,  and  definitely  marking  out  the  margin  of  their  out- 
lines ;  whereas  the  "Welsh  valleys  have  too  often  the  glar- 
ing imperfection  of  the  basin  shape,  which  allows  no  sense 
of  any  absolute  valley  surface ;  the  hills  are  already  com- 
mencing at  the  very  centre  of  what  is  called  the  level  area. 
The  little  valley  of  Easedale  is,  in  this  respect,  as  highly 
finished  as  in  every  other ;  and  in  the  Westmoreland  spring, 
wliich  may  be  considered  May  and  the  earlier  half  of  June, 
whilst  the  grass  in  the  meadows  is  yet  short  from  the 
habit  of  keeping  the  sheep  on  it  until  a  much  later  period 
than  elsewhere,  (viz.  until  the  mountains  are  so  far  cleared 
of  snow  and  the  probability  of  storms  as  to  make  it  safe 
to  send  them  out  on  their  summer  migration,)  the  little 
fields  of  Easedale  have  the  most  lawny  appearance,  and, 
from  the  humidity  of  the  Westmoreland  climate,  the  most 
verdant  that  it  is  |x)ssible  to  imagine ;  and  on  a  gentle 
vernal  day  —  when  '^egetation  has  been  far  enough  ad- 
vanced to  bring  out  the  leaves,  an  April  sun  gleaming 
coyly  through  the  clouds,  and  genial  AprU  rain  gently 
penciling  the  light  spray  of  the  wood  with  tiny  pearl- 
drops —  I  have  often  thought,  whilst  looking  with  silent 
admiration  upon  this  exquisite  composition  of  landscape, 
with  its  miniature  fields  running  up  like  forest  glades  into 
miniature  woods ;  its  little  columns  of  smoke,  breathing  up 
like  incense  to  the  household  gods,  from  the  heai'ths  of  two 
or  three  picturesque  cottages,  —  abodes  of  simple,  primi- 
tive manners,  and  what,  from  personal  knowledge,  I  will 
call  humble  virtue,  —  whUst  my  eyes  rested  on  this  charm- 
ing combination  of  lawns  and  shrubberies,  I  have  thought 
that  if  a  scene  on  this  earth  could  deserve  to  be  sealed  up, 
like  the  valley  of  Easselas,  against  the  intrusion  of  the 
world,  —  if  there  were  one  to  which  a  man  would  willingly 
surrender  himself  a  prisoner  for  the  years  of  a  long  life, 
—  that    it    is    this    Easedale,  —  wliich   would    justify   the 


218  THOilAS  DE  QUINCEY. 

choice,  and  recompense  the  sacrifice.  But  there  is  a  third 
advantage  possessed  by  this  Easedale,  above  other  rival 
valleys,  in  the  sublimity  of  its  mountain  barriers.  In  one 
of  its  many  rocky  recesses  is  seen  a  "  force "  (such  is  the 
local  name  for  a  cataract),  white  with  foam,  descending  at 
all  seasons  with  respectable  strength,  and  after  the  melting 
of  snows  with  an  Alpine  violence.  Follow  the  leading  of 
this  "  force "  for  three  quarters  of  a  mile,  and  you  come  to 
a  little  mountain  lake,  locally  termed  a  "tarn,"  the  very 
finest  and  most  gloomy  sublime  of  its  class.  From  this 
tarn  it  was,  I  doubt  not,  though  applying  it  to  another, 
that  "Wordsworth  drew  the  circumstances  of  his  general 
description :  — 

"  Thither  the  rainhow  comes,  the  clond. 
And  mists  that  spread  the  flying  shroud ; 
'  And  winds 

That,  if  they  conld,  would  hurry  past : 
Bat  that  enormous  barrier  binds  them  fast. 

&c.  &c.  &c. 

The  rocks  repeat  the  raven's  croak. 
In  symphony  austere." 

And  far  beyond  this  "  enormous  barrier,"  that  thus  impris- 
ons the  very  winds,  tower  upwards  the  aspiring  heads 
(usually  enveloped  in  cloud  and  mist)  of  Glaramara,  Bow 
Fell,  and  the  other  fells  of  Langdale  Head  and  Borrow- 
dale.  Finally,  superadded  to  the  other  circumstances  of 
solitude,  arising  out  of  the  rarity  of  human  life,  and  of  the 
signs  which  mark  the  goings  on  of  human  life,  —  two  other 
accidents  there  are  of  Easedale  which  sequester  it  from 
the  world,  and  intensify  its  depth  of  solitude  beyond  what 
could  well  be  looked  for  or  thought  possible  in  any  vale 
within  a  district  so  beaten  by  modem  tourists.  One  is, 
that  it  is  a  chamber  within  a  chamber,  or  rather  a  closet 
within  a  chamber,  —  a  chapel  within  a  cathedral,  —  a  little 
private  oratory  within  a  chapel.  For  Easedale  is,  in  fact, 
a  dependency  of  Grasmere,  —  a  little   recess   lying  within 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE.  219 

the  same  geueral  basin  of  mountains,  but  partitioned  off 
by  a  screen  of  rock  and  swelling  uplands,  so  inconsiderable 
in  height,  that,  when  surveyed  from  the  commanding  sum- 
mits of  Fairfield  or  Seat  Sandal,  they  seem  to  subside  into 
the  level  area,  and  melt  into  the  general  surface.  But, 
viewed  from  below,  these  petty  heights  form  a  sufficient 
partition ;  which  is  pierced,  however,  in  two  points,  — 
once  by  the  little  murmuring  brook  threading  its  silvery 
line  onwards  to  the  lake  of  Grasmere,  and  again  by  a  little 
rough  lane,  barely  capable  (and  I  think  not  capable  in  all 
points)  of  receiving  a  postchaise.  This  little  lane  keeps 
ascending  amongst  wooded  steeps  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile ; 
and  then,  by  a  downward  course  of  a  hundred  yards  or 
so,  brings  you  to  a  point  at  which  the  little  valley  suddenly 
bursts  upon  you  with  as  full  a  revelation  of  its  tiny  pro- 
portions as  the  traversing  of  the  wooded  backgrounds 
will  permit  The  lan^  carries  you  at  last  to  a  little  wooden 
bridge,  practicable  for  pedestrians ;  but  for  carriages,  even 
the  doubtful  road  already  mentioned  ceases  altogether: 
and  tliis  fact,  coupled  with  the  difficulty  of  suspecting  such 
a  lurking  paradise  from  the  high  road  tlu'ough  Grasmere, 
at  every  point  of  wliich  the  little  hilly  partition  crowds 
up  into  one  mass  with  the  capital  barriers  in  the  rear, 
seeming,  in  fact,  not  so  much  to  blend  with  them  as  to  be 
a  part  of  them,  may  account  for  the  fortunate  neglect  of 
Easedale  in  the  tourist's  route;  and  also  because  there 
is  no  one  separate  object,  such  as  a  lake  or  a  splendid 
cataract,  to  bribe  the  interest  of  those  who  are  hunting 
after  sights ;  for  the  "  force "  is  comparatively  small,  and 
the  tarn  is  beyond  the  limits  of  the  vale,  as  well  as  difficult 
of  approach. 

One  other  circumstance  there  is  about  Easedale,  which 
completes  its  demarcation,  and  makes  it  as  entirely  a  land- 
locked little  park,  within  a  ring-feuQe  of  mountains,  as 
ever  human  art;  -f  rendered  capable  of  dealing  with  moun- 


220  THOMAS  DE  QUIXCEY. 

tains  and  their  arrangement,  could  have  contrived.  The 
sole  approach,  as  I  have  mentioned,  is  from  Grasmere; 
and  some  one  outlet  there  must  inevitably  be  in  every  vale 
that  can  be  interesting  to  a  human  occupant,  since  without 
water  it  would  not  be  habitable ;  and  running  water  must 
force  an  exit  for  itself,  and,  consequently,  an  inlet  for  the 
world;  but,  properly  speaking,  there  is  no  other.  For, 
when  you  explore  the  remoter  end  of  the  vale,  at  which 
you  suspect  some  communication  with  the  world  outside, 
you  find  before  you  a  most  formidable  amount  of  climbing, 
the  extent  of  which  can  hardly  be  measured  where  there 
is  no  solitary  object  of  human  workmanship  or  vestige  of 
animal  life,  not  a  sheep-track  even,  not  a  shepherd's  hovel, 
but  rock  and  heath,  heath  and  rock,  tossed  about  in  monoto- 
nous confusion.  And,  after  the  ascent  is  mastered,  you 
descend  into  a  second  vale,  —  long,  narrow,  stei-ile,  known 
by  the  name  of  "  Far  Easedale,"  —  from  which  point,  if 
you  could  drive  a  tunnel  below  the  everlasting  hills,  per- 
haps six  or  seven  miles  might  bring  you  to  the  nearest 
habitation  of  man,  in  Borrowdale ;  but,  crossing  the  moun 
tains,  the  road  cannot  be  less  than  twelve  or  fourteen,  and, 
in  point  of  fatigue,  at  the  least  twenty.  This  long  valley, 
wliich  is  really  temfic  at  noonday,  from  its  utter  loneli- 
ness and  desolation,  completes  the  defences  of  little  sylvan 
Easedale.  There  is  one  door  into  it  from  the  Grasmere 
side ;  but  that  door  is  hidden ;  and  on  every  other  quarter 
there  is  no  door  at  all,  nor  any,  the  roughest,  access,  but 
what  would  demand  a  day's  walking. 

Such  is  the  solitude  —  so  deep,  so  seventimes  guarded, 
and  so  rich  in  miniature  beauty  —  of  Easedale;  and  in 
this  sohtude  it  was  that  George  and  Sarah  Green,  two 
poor  and  hard-working  peasants,  dwelt,  with  a  numerous 
family  of  small  children.  Poor  as  they  were,  they  had 
won  the  general  respect  of  the  neighborhood,  from  tlie 
uncomplaining  firmness  with  which  they  bore   the  hard- 


A.MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE.  221 

sloips  of  their  lot,  and  from  the  decent  attire  in  which  the 
good  mother  of  the  family  contrived  to  send  out  her  cliil- 
dren  to  the  Grasmere  school.  It  is  a  custom,  and  a  very 
ancient  one,  in  Westmoreland,  —  and  I  have  seen  the  same 
usage  prevailing  in  Southern  Scotland,  —  that  any  sale 
by  auction,  whether  of  cattle,  of  farming-produce,  farming- 
stock,  wood,  or  household  furniture,  —  and  seldom  a  fort- 
night passes  without  something  of  the  sort,  —  forms  an  ex- 
cuse for  the  good  women,  throughout  the  whole  circumfer- 
ence of  perhaps  a  dozen  valleys,  to  assemble  at  the  place 
of  sale,  with  the  nominal  purpose  of  aiding  the  sale,  or  of 
buying  something  they  may  happen  to  want.  No  doubt 
the  real  business  of  the  sale  attracts  numbers ;  although  of 
late  years,  —  that  is,  for  the  last  twenty-five  years,  through 
which  so  many  sales  of  furniture  the  most  expensive  (has- 
tily made  by  casual  settlers,  on  the  wing  for  some  fresher 
novelty),  —  have  made  this  particular  article  almost  a 
drug  in  the  country;  and  the  interest  in  such  sales  has 
greatly  declined.  But,  in  1807,  this  fever  of  founding  vil- 
las or  cottages  ornees  was  yet  only  beginning ;  and  a  sale, 
except  it  were  of  the  sort  exclusively  interesting  to  farming- 
men,  was  a  kind  of  general  intimation  to  the  country,  from 
the  o\vner  of  the  property,  tliat  he  would,  on  that  afternoon, 
be  "at  home"  for  all  comers,  and  hoped  to  see  as  largo 
an  attendance  as  possible.  Accordingly,  it  was  the  almost 
invariable  custom  —  and  often,  too,  when  the  parties  were 
far  too  poor  for  such  an  effort  of  hospitality  —  to  make 
ample  provision,  not  of  eatables,  but  of  liquor,  for  all  who 
came.  Even  a  gentleman,  who  should  happen  to  present 
himself  on  such  a  festal  occasion,  by  way  of  seeing  the 
"humors"  of  the  scene,  was  certain  of  meeting  tlic  most 
cordial  welcome.  The  good  woman  of  the  house  more 
particularly  testified  her  sense  of  the  honor  done  to  lier 
house,  and  was  sure  to  seek  out  some  cherished  and  soli- 
tary article  of  china,  —  a  wreck  from  a  century  back,— 


222  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY      , 

in  order  that  he,  being  a  porcelain  man  amongst  so  many 
delf  men  and  women,  might  have  a  porcelain  cup  to  drink 
from. 

The  main  secret  of  attraction  at  these  sales  —  many  a 
score  of  wliich  I  have  attended  —  was  the  social  rendez- 
vous thus  effected  between  parties  so  remote  from  each 
other  (either  by  real  distance,  or  by  the  virtual  distance 
which  results  from  a  separation  by  difficult  tracts  of  hilly 
country),  tliat,  in  fact,  without  some  such  common  object 
and  oftentimes  something  like  a  bisection  of  the  interval 
between  them,  they  would  not  be  likely  to  hear  of  each 
other  for  months,  or  actually  to  meet  for  years.  This 
principal  charm  of  the  "  gathering,"  seasoned,  doubtless,  to 
many  by  the  certain  anticipation  that  the  whole  budget  of 
rural  scandal  would  then  and  there  be  opened,  was  not 
assuredly  diminished  to  the  men  by  the  anticipation  of 
excellent  ale  (usually  brewed  six  or  seven  weeks  before, 
in  preparation  for  the  event),  and  possibly  of  still  more 
excellent  pow-sowdy  (a  combination  of  ale,  spirits,  and 
spices)  ;  nor  to  the  women  by  some  prospect,  not  so  inev- 
itably fulfilled,  but  pretty  certain  in  a  liberal  house,  of 
communicating  their  news  over  excellent  tea.  Even  the 
auctioneer  was  always  "part  and  parcel"  of  the  mu*th: 
he  was  always  a  rustic  old  humorist,  a  "  character,"  and  a 
jovial  drunkard,  privileged  in  certain  good-humored  liber- 
ties and  jokes  with  all  bidders,  gentle  or  simple,  and  fur- 
nished with  an  ancient  inheritance  of  jests  appropriate  to 
the  articles  offered  for  sale,  — jests  that  had,  doubtless,  done 
their  office  from  Elizabeth's  golden  days ;  but  no  more,  on 
that  account,  failed  of  their  expected  effect,  with  either 
man  or  woman  of  this  nineteenth  century,  than  the  sun 
fails  to  gladden  the  heart  because  it  is  that  same  old  obso- 
lete sun  that  has  gladdened  it  for  thousands  of  years. 

One  thing,  however,  in  mere  justice  to  the  poor  indige- 
nous  Dalesmen  of  "Westmoreland  and  Cumberland,  I  aru 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE.  223 

bound,  in  this  place,  to  record,  that,  often  as  I  have  been  at 
these  sales,  and  through  many  a  year  before  even  a  scat- 
tering of  gentry  began  to  attend,  yet  so  true  to  the  natural 
standard  of  politeness  was  the  decorum  uniformly  main- 
tained, even  the  old  buffoon  (as  sometimes  he  was)  of  an 
auctioneer  never  forgot  liimself  so  far  as  to  found  upon  any 
article  of  furniture  a  jest  that  could  have  called  up  a  pain- 
ful blush  in  any  woman's  face.  He  might,  perhaps,  go  so 
far  as  to  awaken  a  little  rosy  confusion  upon  some  young 
bride's  countenance,  when  pressing  a  cradle  upon  her  at- 
tention :  but  never  did  I  hear  him  utter,  nor  would  he  have 
been  tolerated  in  uttering,  a  scurrilous  or  disgusting  jest, 
such  as  might  easily  have  been  suggested  by  something 
offered  at  a  household  sale.  Such  jests  as  these  I  heard 
for  the  fu"st  time  at  a  sale  in  Grasmere  in  1814,  and,  I  am 
ashamed  to  say  it,  from  some  "  gentlemen  "  of  a  great  city. 
And  it  grieved  me  to  see  the  effect,  as  it  expressed  it- 
self upon  the  manly  faces  of  the  grave  Dalesmen,  —  a 
sense  of  insult  offered  to  their  women,  who  met  in  confid- 
ing reliance  upon  the  forbearance  of  the  men,  and  upon 
their  regard  for  the  dignity  of  the  female  sex,  this  feeling 
struggling  with  the  habitual  respect  they  are  inclined  to 
show  towards  what  they  suppose  gentle  blood  and  supe- 
rior education.  Taken  generally,  however,  these  were  the 
most  picturesque  and  festal  meetings  which  the  manners 
of  the  country  produced.  Tliere  you  saw  all  ages  and 
both  sexes  assembled ;  there  you  saw  old  men  whose  heads 
would  have  been  studies  for  Guido;  there  you  saw  the 
most  colossal  and  stately  figures  amongst  the  young  men 
that  England  has  to  show ;  there  the  most  beautiful  young 
women.  There  it  was  that  sometimes  I  saw  a  lovelier  face 
than  ever  I  shall  see  again :  there  it  was  that  local  pecu- 
liarities of  usage  or  of  language  were  best  to  be  studied ; 
thero  —  at  least  in  the  earlier  years  of  my  residence  in 
that  (listrict  —  that  the  social  benevolence,  the  grave  wis- 


224  THOMAS  DE  QUINCET. 

dom,  the  innocent  mirth,  and  the  neighborly  kindness  of 
the  people,  most  delightfully  expanded,  and  expressed  them- 
selves with  the  least  reserve. 

To  such  a  scene  it  was,  to  a  sale  of  domestic  furniture 
at  the  house  of  some  proprietor  on  the  point  of  giving  up 
housekeeping,  perhaps  in  order  to  live  Avith  a  married  son 
or  daughter,  that  George  and  Sarah  Green  set  forward  in 
the  forenoon  of  a  day  fated  to  be  their  last  on  earth.  The 
sale  was  to  take  place  in  Langdale  Head ;  to  which,  from 
their  own  cottage  in  Easedale,  it  was  possible  in  daylight, 
and  supposing  no  mist  upon  the  hills,  to  find  out  a  short  cut 
of  not  more  than  eight  miles.  By  tliis  route  they  went ;  and 
notwithstanding  the  snow  lay  on  the  ground,  they  reached 
their  destination  in  safety.  The  attendance  at  the  sale  must 
have  been  diminished  by  the  rigorous  state  of  the  weather ; 
but  still  the  scene  was  a  gay  one  as  usual.  Sarah  Green, 
though  a  good  and  worthy  woman  in  her  maturer  years,  had 
been  imprudent,  —  and,  as  the  tender  consideration  of  the 
country  is  apt  to  express  it,  —  "  unfortunate  "  in  her  youth. 
She  had  an  elder  daughter,  and  I  believe  the  father  of  this 
girl  was  dead.  Tlie  girl  herself  was  grown  up ;  and  the 
peculiar  solicitude  of  poor  Sarah's  maternal  heart  was  at 
this  time  called  forth  on  her  behalf:  she  wished  to  see  her 
placed  in  a  very  respectable  house,  where  the  mistress  was 
distinguished  for  her  notable  qualities  and  her  success  in 
forming  good  servants.  This  object  —  so  important  to  Sarah 
Green  in  the  narrow  range  of  her  cares,  as  in  a  more  ex- 
alted family  it  might  be  to  obtain  a  ship  for  a  lieutenant 
that  had  passed  as  master  and  commander,  or  to  get  him 
"posted"  —  occupied  her  almost  throughout  the  sale.  A 
doubtful  answer  had  been  given  to  her  application ;  and 
Sarah  was  going  about  the  crowd,  and  weaving  her  i)erson 
in  and  out  in  order  to  lay  hold  of  this  or  that  intercessor 
who  might  have,  or  might  seem  to  have,  some  weight  with 
the  principal  person  concerned. 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE.  "225 

This  was  the  last  occupation  which  is  known  to  have 
Btirred  the  pulses  of  her  heart.  An  illegitimate  child  is 
everywhere,  even  in  the  indulgent  society  of  Westmore- 
land Dalesmen,  under  some  shade  of  discountenance ;  so 
that  Sarah  Green  might  consider  her  duty  to  be  the  stronger 
toward  the  child  of  her  "  misfortune."  And  she  probably 
had  another  reason  for  her  anxiety  —  as  some  words  dropped 
by  her  on  this  evening  led  people'  to  presume  —  in  her  con- 
scientious desire  to  introduce  her  daughter  into  a  situation 
less  perilous  than  that  which  had  compassed  her  own  youth- 
ful steps  with  snares.  Jf  so,  it  is  painful  to  know  that  the 
virtuous  Avish,  whose 

"  vital  warmth 
Gave  the  last  human  motion  to  the  heart," 

should  not  have  been  fulfilled.  She  was  a  woman  of  ardent 
and  affectionate  spirit,  of  which  Miss  Wordsworth's  memoir, 
or  else  her  subsequerft  memorials  in  conversation,  (I  forget 
which,)  gave  some  circumstantial  and  affecting  instances, 
which  I  cannot  now  recall  with  accuracy.  This  ardor  it  was, 
and  her  impassioned  manner,  that  drew  attention  to  what 
she  did ;  for,  otherwise,  she  was  too  poor  a  person  to  be 
important  in  the  estimation  of  strangers,  and,  of  all  possible 
situations,  to  be  important  at  a  sale,  where  the  public  atten- 
tion was  naturally  fixed  upon  the  chief  purchasers,  and  the 
attention  of  the  purchasers  upon  the  chief  competitors.  Hence 
it  happened  that,  after  she  ceased  to  challenge  notice  by  the 
emphasis  of  her  solicitations  for  her  daughter,  she  ceased 
to  be  noticed  at  all ;  and  nothing  was  recollected  of  her  sub- 
sequent behavior  until  the  time  arrived  for  general  sejjara- 
tion.  This  time  was  considerably  after  sunset ;  and  the 
final  recollections  of  the  crowd  witli  respect  to  George  and 
Sai'ah  Green  were,  that,  upon  their  intention  being  under- 
stood to  retrace  their  morning  path,  and  to  attempt  the 
perilous  task  of  dropping  down  into  Easedale  from  the 
mountains  above  Langdale  Head,  a  sound  of  remonstrance 
15 


226  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY. 

arose  from  many  quarters.  However,  at  a  moment  when 
everybody  was  in  the  hurry  of  departure,  —  and,  to  persons 
of  their  mature  age,  the  opposition  could  not  be  very  ob- 
stinate,—  party  after  party  rode  off;  the  meeting  melted 
away,  or,  as  the  Northern  phrase  is,  scaled ;  and  at  length 
nobody  Avas  left  of  any  weight  that  could  pretend  to  influ- 
ence the  decision  of  elderly  people.  They  quitted  the  scene, 
professing  to  obey  some  advice  or  other  upon  the  choice  of 
roads ;  but,  at  as  early  a  point  as  they  could  do  so  unob- 
served, began  to  ascend  the  hills,  everywhere  open  from  the 
rude  carriage-way.  After  this,  they  were  seen  no  more. 
They  had  disappeared  into  the  cloud  of  death.  Voices  were 
heard,  some  hours  afterwards,  from  the  mountains,  —  voices, 
as  some  thought,  of  alarm ;  others  said,  no,  —  that  it  was 
only  the  voices  of  jovial  people,  carried  by  the  wind  into  un- 
certain regions.  The  result  was,  that  no  attention  was  paid 
to  the  sounds. 

That  night,  in  little  peaceful  Easedale,  six  children  sat 
by  a  peat  fire,  expecting  the  return  of  their  parents,  upon 
whom  they  depended  for  their  daily  bread.  Let  a  day 
pass,  and  they  were  starved.  Every  sound  was  heard  with 
anxiety;  for  all  this  was  reported  many  a  hundred  times 
to  Miss  Wordsworth,  and  those  who,  like  myself,  were 
never  wearied  of  hearing  the  details.  Every  sound,  every 
echo  amongst  the  hUls  was  listened  to  for  five  hours,  —  from 
seven  to  twelve.  At  length,  the  eldest  girl  of  the  family  — 
about  nine  years  old  —  told  her  little  brothers  and  sistei-s  to 
go  to  bed.  They  had  been  taught  obedience ;  and  all  of  them, 
at  the  voice  of  their  eldest  sister,  went  off  fearfully  to  their 
beds.  What  could  be  their  fears,  it  is  difficult  to  say !  they 
had  no  knowledge  to  instruct  them  in  the  dangers  of  the 
hills  ;  but  the  eldest  sister  always  aveiTcd  that  they  had  a 
deep  solicitude,  as  she  herself  had,  about  their  parents. 
Doubtless  she  had  communicated  her  fears  to  them.  Some 
time  iu  the  course  of  the  evening,  —  but  it  was  late  and 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE.  227 

after  midnight,  —  the  moon  arose,  and  shed  a  torrent  of  light 
upon  the  Langdale  fells,  which  had  already,  long  hours  be- 
fore, witnessed  in  darkness  the  death  of  their  parents.  It 
may  be  well  here  to  cite  Mr.  "Wordsworth's  stanzas  :  — 

"Who  weeps  for  strangers  ?     Many  wept 
For  George  and  Sarah  Green  ; 
Wept  for  that  pair's  unhappy  fate, 
Whose  graves  may  here  be  seen. 

"  By  night,  upon  these  stonny  fells. 
Did  wife  and  husband  roam ; 
Six  little  ones  at  home  had  left. 
And  could  not  find  that  home. 

"  For  any  dwelling-place  of  man 
As  vainly  did  they  seek. 
He  perished  ;  and  a  voice  was  heard  ^ 
The  widow's  lonely  shriek. 

"  Not  many  steps,  and  she  was  left 
A  body  without  life,  — 
A  few  short  steps  were  the  chain  that  bound 
The  husband  to  the  wife. 

"Now  do  these  sternly-featured  hills. 
Look  gently  on  this  grave ; 
And  quiet  now  are  the  depths  of  air, 
As  a  sea  without  a  wave. 

«« But  deeper  lies  the  heart  of  peace 
In  quiet  more  profound ; 
The  heart  of  quietness  is  here 
Within  this  churchyard  bound- 

"And  from  all  agony  of  mind 
It  keeps  them  safe,  and  far 
From  fear  and  grief,  and  from  all  need 
Of  sun  or  guiding  star. 

"  O  darkness  of  the  grave !  how  deep, 
After  that  living  night,  — 
That  last  and  dreary  living  one 
Of  sorrow  and  aflFright ! 


228  THOMAS  DE   QUIXCEY. 

"  O  sacred  marriage-bed  of  death. 
That  kcpps  them  side  by  side 
In  bond  of  peace,  in  bond  of  love. 
That  may  not  be  untied  ! " 

That  night,  and  the  following  morning,  came  a  further 
and  a  heavier  fall  of  snow;  in  consequence  of  which  the 
poor  children  wei*e  completely  imprisoned,  and  cut  off  from 
all  possibility  of  communicating  with  their  next  neighbors. 
The  brook  was  too  much  for  them  to  leap ;  and  the  little 
crazy  wooden  bridge  could  not  be  crossed,  or  even  ap- 
proached with  safety,  from  the  drifting  of  the  snow  having 
made  it  impossible  to  ascertain  the  exact  situation  of  some 
treacherous  hole  in  its  timbers,  which,  if  trod  upon,  would 
have  let  a  small  child  drop  through  into  the  rapid  waters. 
Their  parents  did  not  return.  For  some  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing the  children  clung  to  the  hope  that  the  extreme  severity 
of  the  night  had  tempted  them  to  sleep  in  Langdtde  ;  but 
"this  hope  forsook  them  as  the  day  wore  away.  Their  father, 
George  Green,  had  served  as  a  soldier,  and  was  an  active 
man,  of  ready  resources,  who  would  not,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, have  failed  to  force  a  road  back  to  his  family, 
had  he  been  still  living ;  and  this  reflection,  or  rather  semi- 
conscious feeling,  which  the  awfulness  of  their  situation 
forced  upon  the  minds  of  all  but  the  mere  infants,  taught 
them  to  feel  the  extremity  of  their  danger.  Wonderful  it  is 
to  see  the  effect  of  sudden  misery,  sudden  grief,  or  sudden 
fear,  (where  they  do  not  utterly  upset  the  faculties,)  in 
sharpening  the  intellectual  perceptions.  Instances  must 
have  fallen  in  the  way  of  most  of  us.  And  I  have  noticed 
frequently  that  even  sudden  and  intense  bodily  pain  is  part 
of  the  machinery  employed  by  nature  for  quickening  the 
development  of  the  mind.  The  perceptions  of  infants  aje 
not,  in  fact,  excited  gradatim  and  continuously,  but  per 
solium,  and  by  unequal  starts.  At  least,  in  the  case  of  my 
own  childi'cn,  one  and  all,  I  have  remarked,  that,  after  any 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE.  229 

very  severe  fit  of  those  peculiar  pains  to  which  the  delicate 
digestive  organs  of  most  infants  are  liable,  there  always 
become  apparent  on  the  following  day  a  very  considerable 
increase  of  vital  energy  and  of  vivacious  attention  to  the  ob- 
jects around  them.  The  poor  desolate  children  of  Blentarn 
Ghyll,  hourly  becoming  more  ruefully  convinced  that  they 
were  orphans,  gave  many  evidences  of  this  awaking  power, 
as  lodged  by  a  providential  arrangement,  in  situations  of 
trial  that  most  require  it.  They  huddled  together,  in  the 
evening,  round  their  hearth-fire  of  peats,  and  held  their  little 
councils  upon  what  was  to  be  done  towards  any  chance  — 
if  chance  remained  —  of  yet  giving  aid  to  their  parents  ; 
for  a  slender  hope  had  sprung  up  that  some  hovel  or  sheep- 
fold  might  have  furnished  them  a  screen  (or,  in  Westmore- 
land phrase,  a  bield)  against  the  weather-quailer  of  the 
storm,  in  which  hovel  they  might  be  lying  disabled  or 
snowed  up ;  and  secondly,  as  regarded  themselves,  in  what 
way  they  were  to  make  known  their  situation,  in  case  the 
snow  should  continue  or  increase  ;  for  starvation  stared  them 
in  the  face,  if  they  should  be  confined  for  many  days  to  their 
house. 

Meantime,  the  eldest  sister,  little  Agnes,  though  sadly 
alarmed,  and  feeling  the  sensation  of  eariness  as  twilight 
came  on,  and  she  looked  out  from  the  cottage  door  to  the 
dreadful  iells,  on  Avhich,  too  probably,  her  parents  Avere 
lying  corpses,  (and  possibly  not  many  hundred  yards  from 
their  own  threshold,)  yet  exerted  hei-self  to  take  all  tho 
measures  which  their  own  prospects  made  prudent.  An  J 
she  told  Miss  Wordsworth,  that,  in  the  midst  of  tbe  oppres- 
sion on  her  little  spirit,  from  vague  gliostly  terrors,  she  did 
not  fail,  however,  to  draw  some  comfort  from  the  considei-a- 
tion,  that  the  very  same  causes  which  produced  their  danger 
in  one  direction,  sheltered  them  from  danger  of  another 
kind,  —  such  dangers  as  she  knew,  from  books  that  she  had 
read,  would  have  threatened  a  little  desolate  flock  of  childi-en 


230  THOMAS  DE   QUINCEY. 

in  other  parts  of  England ;  that,  if  they  (lould  not  get  out 
into  Grasmere,  on  the  other  hand,  bad  men,  and  wild  seafar- 
ing foreigners,  who  sometimes  passed  along  the  high  road 
in  that  vale,  could  not  get  to  them;  and  that,  as  to  their 
neighbors,   so   far  from   having   anything  to   fear   in   that 
quarter,  their  greatest  apprehension  was  lest  they  might  not 
be  able  to  acquaint  them  with  their  situation ;  but  that,  if 
that  could  be  accomplished,  the  very  sternest  amongst  them 
were  kind-hearted  people,  that  would  contend  with  each 
other  for  the  privilege  of  assisting  them.    Somewhat  cheered 
with  these  thoughts,  and  having  caused  all  her  brothers  and 
«isters  —  except  the  two  little  things,  not  yet  of  a  fit  age  — 
to  kneel  down  and  say  the  prayere  which  they  had  been 
taught,  this  admirable  little  maiden  tm-ned  herself  to  every 
household  task  that  could  have  proved  useful  to  them  in  a 
<ong  captivity.     First  of  all,  upon  some  recollection  that  the 
clock  was  nearly  going  down,  she  wound  it  up.     Next,  she 
took  all  the  milk  which  remained  from  what  her  mother  had 
provided  for  the  children's  consumption  during  her  absence, 
and  for  the  breakfast  of  the  following  morning,  —  this  luck- 
ily was  still  in  sufficient  plenty  for  two  days'  consumption, 
(skimmed  or  "  blue  "  milk  being  only  one  half-penny  a  quart, 
and  the  quart  a  most  redundant  one,  in  Grasmere,)  —  this 
she  took  and  scalded,  so  as  to  save  it  from  turning  sour. 
That  done,  she  next  examined  the  meal-chest ;  made  the 
common  oatmeal  porridge  of  the  country  (the  burgoo  of  the 
royal  navy)  ;  but  put  all  of  the  children,  except  the  two 
youngest,  on  short  allowance ;  and,  by  way  of  reconciling 
them  in  some  measure  to  this  stinted  meal,  she  found  out  a 
little  hoard  of  flour,  part  of  which  she  baked  for  them  upon 
the  hearth  into  little  cakes ;  and  this  unusual  delicacy  per- 
suaded them  to  think  that  they  had  been  celebrating  a  feast. 
Next,  before  night  coming  on  should  make  it  too  trying  to 
her  own  feelings,  or  before  fresh  snow  coming  on  might  make 
it  impossible,  she  issued  out  of  doors.     There  her  fu-st  task 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTlvOPIIE.  231 

was,  with  the  assistance  of  two  younger  brothers,  to  carry 
in  from  the  peat-stack  as  many  peats  as  might  serve  them  for 
a  week's  consumption.  That  done,  in  the  second  place,  she 
examined  the  potatoes,  buried  in  "  brackens  "  (that  is,  with- 
ered fern)  :  these  were  not  many  ;  and  she  thought  it  better 
to  leave  them  where  they  were,  excepting  as  many  as  would 
make  a  single  meal,  under  a  fear  that  the  heat  of  their  cot- 
tage would  spoil  them,  if  removed. 

Having  thus  made  all  the  provision  in  her  power  for 
supporting  their  own  lives,  she  turned  her  attention  to  the 
cow.  Her  she  milked ;  but,  unfortunately  the  milk  she 
gave,  either  from  being  badly  fed,  or  from  some  other  cause, 
was  too  trifling  to  be  of  much  consideration  towards  the 
wants  of  a  large  family.  Here,  however,  her  chief  anxiety 
wa.s  to  get  down  the  ijay  for  the  cow's  food  from  a  loft  above 
the  outhouse ;  and  in  this  she  succeeded  but  imperfectly, 
from  want  of  strength  &nd  size  to  cope  vnih  the  difficulties 
of  the  case ;  besides  that  the  increasing  darkness  by  this 
•  time,  together  with  the  gloom  of  the  place,  made  it  a  matter 
of  great  self-conquest  for  her  to  work  at  all ;  and,  as  re- 
spected one  night  at  any  rate,  she  placed  the  cow  in  a  situa- 
tion of  luxurious  warmth  and  comfort.  Then  retreating 
into  the  warm  house,  and  "  barring  "  the  door,  she  sat  do\vn 
to  undress  the  two  youngest  of  the  children  ;  them  she  laid 
carefully  and  cosily  in  their  little  nests  uj)-stairs,  and  sang 
them  to  sleep.  The  rest  she  kept  up  to  bear  lier  company 
until  the  clock  should  tell  them  it  was  midnight ;  np  to 
which  time  she  had  still  a  lingering  hope  that  some  welcome 
shout  from  the  hills  above,  which  they  were  all  to  strain 
their  ears  to  catch,  might  yet  assure  them  that  tliey  were 
not  wholly  orplians,  even  thougli  one  parent  should  have 
perished.  'No  shout,  it  may  be  supposed,  was  ever  heard ; 
nor  could  a  shout,  in  any  case,  have  been  heard,  for  tlie 
night  was  one  of  tumultuous  wind.  And  though,  amidst  its 
ravings,  sometimes  they  fancied  a  sound  of  voices,  still,  in 


232  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY. 

the  dead  lulls  that  now  and  then  succeeded,  they  heard 
notliing  to  confirm  their  hopes.  As  last  services  to  what  she 
might  now  have  called  her  own  little  family,  Agnes  took 
precautions  against  the  drifting  of  the  snow  within  the  door 
and  the  imperfect  window  wliich  had  caused  them  some  dis- 
comfort on  the  preceding  day  ;  and,  finally,  she  adopted  the 
most  systematic  and  elaborate  plans  for  preventing  the  pos- 
sibility of  their  fire  being  extinguished,  which,  in  the  event 
of  their  being  throAvn  upon  the  ultimate  resource  of  their 
potatoes,  would  be  absolutely  (and  in  any  event  nearly)  in- 
dispensable to  their  existence. 

The  night  slipped  away,  and  another  morning  came, 
bringing  with  it  no  better  hopes  of  any  kind.  Change  there 
had  been  none  but  for  the  worse.  The  snow  had  greatly 
increased  in  quantity ;  and  the  drifts  seemed  far  more  for- 
midable. A  second  day  passed  like  the  first ;  little  Agnes 
still  keeping  her  little  flock  quiet,  and  tolerably  comfortable ; 
and  still  calling  on  all  the  eldei*s  in  succession  to  say  their 
prayers,  morning  and  night. 

A  third  day  came ;  and  whether  it  was  on  that  or  on 
the  fourth,  I  do  not  now  recollect ;  but  on  one  or  other  there 
came  a  welcome  gleam  of  hope.  The  arrangement  of  the 
snow-drifts  had  shifted  during  the  night ;  and  though  the 
wooden  bridge  was  still  impracticable,  a  low  wall  had  been 
exposed,  over  which,  by  a  very  considerable  circuit,  and 
crossing  the  low  shoulder  of  a  hill,  it  seemed  possible  that  a 
road  might  be  found  into  Grasmere.  In  some  walls  it  was 
necessaiy  to  force  gaps  ;  but  this  was  effected  without  much 
difficulty,  even  by  cliildren,  for  the  Westmoreland  walls  are 
always  "  open,"  that  is,  uncemented  with  mortar,  and  the 
push  of  a  stick  will  readily  detach  so  much  from  t^ie  upper 
part  of  an  old  crazy  field  wall,  as  to  lower  it  sufficiently  for 
female  or  for  childish  steps  to  pass.  The  little  boys  accom- 
panied their  sister  until  she  came  to  the  other  side  of  the 
hill,  which,  lying  more  sheltered  from  the  weather,  and  to 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTEOPHE.  233 

windward,  offered  a  path  onwards  comparatively  (jasy.  Here 
they  parted ;  and  little  Agnes  pursued  her  solitary  mission 
to  the  nearest  house  she  could  find  accessible  in  Grasmere, 

No  house  could  have  proved  a  wrong  one  in  such  a  case. 
!Miss  Wordsworth  and  I  often  heard  the  description  renewed 
of  the  horror  which,  in  an  instant,  displaced  the  smile  of 
hospitable  greeting,  when  little  weeping  Agnes  told  her  sad 
tale.  No  tongue  can  express  the  fervid  sympathy  which 
travelled  thi-ough  the  vale,  like  the  fire  in  an  American 
forest,  when  it  was  learned  that  neither  George  nor  Sarah 
Green  had  been  seen  by  their  children  since  the  day  of  the 
Langdale  sale.  Within  half  an  hour,  or  little  more,  from 
the  remotest  pai-ts  of  the  valley,  —  some  of  them  distant 
nearly  two  miles  from  the  point  of  rendezvous,  —  all  the 
men  of  Grasmere  had  assembled  at  the  little  cluster  of  cot- 
tages called  "  Kirktown,"  from  their  adjacency  to  the  vener- 
able parish  church  of  St.  Oswald.  There  were  at  the  time 
I  settled  in  Grasmere  (viz.  in  the  spring  of  1809,  and, 
therefore,  I  suppose  at  this  time,  fifteen  mouths  previously) 
about  sixty-three  households  in  the  vale,  and  the  total  num- 
ber of  souls  was  about  two  hundred  and  sixty-five  ;  so  that 
the  number  of  fighting  men  would  be  about  sixty  or  sixty- 
six,  accorduig  to  the  common  way  of  computing  the  propor- 
tion ;  and  the  majority  were  so  athletic  and  powerfully  built, 
that,  at  the  village  games  of  wrestling  and  leaping,  Pro- 
fessor Wilson,  and  some  visitors  of  his  and  mine,  scarcely 
one  of  Avhom  was  under  five  feet  eleven  in  height,  Avitli  pro- 
portionable breadth,  seem  but  middle-sized  men  amongst  the 
towering  forms  of  the  Dalesmen.  Sixty  at  least,  after  a 
short  consultation  as  to  the  plan  of  operations,  and  for 
arranging  the  kind  of  signals  by  which  they  were  to  com- 
municate from  great  distances,  and  in  the  perilous  events  of 
mists  or  snow-storms,  set  off,  with  the  speed  of  Alpine  hun- 
ters, to  the  hills.  The  dangers  of  the  undertaking  were 
considerable,  under  the  uneasy  and  agitated  state  of  the 


234  THOMAS  DE  QUINCET. 

weather ;  and  all  the  women  of  the  vale  were  in  the  gi'eatest 
anxiety,  until  night  brought  them  back,  in  a  body,  unsuc- 
cessful. Three  days  at  the  least,  and  I  rather  tliink  five, 
the  search  was  ineffectual ;  which  arose  partly  from  the 
great  extent  of  the  ground  to  be  examined,  and  partly  from 
the  natural  mistake  made  of  ranging  almost  exclusively  on 
the  earlier  days  on  that  part  of  the  hills  over  which  the  path 
of  Easedale  might  be  presumed  to  have  been  selected  under 
any  reasonable  latitude  of  circuitousness.  But  the  fact  is, 
when  the  fatal  accident  (for  such  it  has  often  proved)  of  a 
permanent  mist  surprises  a  man  on  the  hills,  if  he  turns  and 
loses  his  direction,  he  is  a  lost  man  ;  and  without  doing  this 
so  as  to  lose  the  power  of  s^orienter  in  one  instant,  it  is  well 
known  how  difficult  it  is  to  avoid  losing  it  insensibly  and  by 
degrees.  Baffling  snow-showers  are  the  worst  kind  of  mists. 
And  the  poor  Greens  had,  under  that  kind  of  confusion, 
wandered  many  a  mile  out  of  their  proper  track. 

The  zeal  of  the  people,  meantime,  was  not  in  the  least 
abated,  but  rather  quickened,  by  the  wearisome  disappoint^ 
menta ;  every  hour  of  daylight  was  turned  to  account ;  no 
man  of  the  valley  ever  came  home  to  dinner ;  and  the  reply 
of  a  young  shoemaker,  on  the  fourth  night's  return,  speaks 
sufficiently  for  the  unabated  spirit  of  the  vale.  Miss  Words- 
worth asked  what  he  would  do  on  the  next  morning.  "Go 
up  again,  of  course,"  was  his  answer.  But  what  if  to-mor- 
row also  should  turn  out  like  all  the  rest  ?  "  Why,  go  up  in 
stronger  force  on  the  next  day."  Yet  this  man  was  sacri- 
ficing his  own  daily  earnings  without  a  chance  of  recom- 
pense. At  length  sagacious  dogs  were  taken  up ;  and, 
about  noonday,  a  shout  from  an  aerial  height,  amongst  thick 
volumes  of  cloudy  vapor,  propagated  through  repeating  bands 
of  men  from  a  distance  of  many  miles,  conveyed  as  by  tele- 
gi-aph  the  news  that  the  bodies  were  found.  George  Green 
was  found  lying  at  the  bottom  of  a  precipice,  from  which  he 
had  fallen.     Sarah  Green  was  found  on  the  summit  of  the 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROPHE,  235 

precipice ;  and,  by  laying  together  all  the  indications  of 
what  had  passed,  the  sad  hieroglyphics  of  their  last  agonies, 
it  was  conjectured  that  the  husband  had  desired  his  wife  to 
pause  for  a  few  minutes,  wrapping  her,  meantime,  in  his  own 
great-coat,  whilst  he  should  go  forward  and  reconnoitre  the 
ground,  in  order  to  catch  a  sight  of  some  object  (rocky  peak, 
or  tarn,  or  peat-field)  which  might  ascertain  their  real  situa- 
tion. Either  the  snow  above,  already  lying  in  drifts,  or  the 
blinding  snow-storms  driving  into  his  eyes,  must  have  misled 
him  as  to  the  nature  of  the  circumjacent  ground ;  for  the 
precipice  over  which  he  had  fallen  was  but  a  few  yards  from 
the  spot  in  which  he  had  quitted  his  wife.  The  depth  of 
the  descent,  and  the  fury  of  the  wind  (almost  always  violent 
on  these  cloudy  altitudes),  would  prevent  any  distinct  com- 
munication between  the  dying  husband  below  and  his  de- 
spairing wife  above ;  but  it  was  believed  by  the  shepherds 
best  acquainted  with  the  ground  and  the  range  of  sound  as 
regarded  the  capacities  of  the  human  ear,  under  the  proba- 
ble circumstances  of  the  storm,  that  Sarah  might  have 
caught,  at  intervals,  the  groans  of  her  unhappy  partner,  sup- 
posing that  his  death  were  at  all  a  lingering  one.  Others, 
on  the  contrary,  supposed  her  to  have  gathered  this  catas- 
trophe rather  from  the  want  of  any  sounds,  and  from  his 
continued  absence,  than  from  any  one  distinct  or  positive 
expression  of  it ;  both  because  the  smooth  and  unruffled 
surface  of  the  snow  where  he  lay  seemed  to  argue  that  he 
had  died  without  a  struggle,  perhaps  without  a  groan,  and 
because  that  tremendous  sound  of  "  hurtling  "  in  the  upper 
chambers  of  the  air,  which  often  accompanies  a  snow-stonn, 
when  combined  with  heavy  gales  of  wind,  would  utterly 
oppress  and  stifle  (as  they  conceived)  any  sounds  so  feeble 
as  those  from  a  dying  man.  In  any  case,  and  by  whatever 
sad  language  of  sounds  or  signs,  positive  or  negative,  Fho 
might  have  learned  or  guessed  her  loss,  it  was  generally 
agreed  that  the  wild  shrieks  heard  towards  midnight  in 


236  THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY. 

Langdale  Head  announced  the  agonizing  moment  which 
brought  to  her  now  widowed  heai-t  the  conviction  of  utter 
desolation  and  of  final  abandonment  to  her  own  fast-fleeting 
energies.  It  seemed  probable  that  the  sudden  disappear- 
ance of  her  husband  from  her  pursuing  eyes  would  teach  her 
to  understand  his  fate,  and  that  the  consequent  indefinite 
apprehension  of  instant  death  lying  all  around  the  point  on 
which  she  sat  had  kept  her  stationary  to  the  very  attitude 
in  Avhich  her  husband  left  her,  until  her  failing  powers  and 
the  increasing  bitterness  of  the  cold,  to  one  no  longer  in 
motion,  would  soon  make  those  changes  of  place  impossible, 
which,  at  any  rate,  had  appeared  too  dangerous.  The  foot- 
steps in  some  places,  wherever  drifting  had  not  obliterated 
them,  yet  traceable  as  to  the  outline,  though  partially  filled 
up  with  later  falls  of  snow,  satisfactorily  showed  that,  how- 
ever much  they  might  have  rambled,  after  crossing  and 
doubling  upon  their  own  j^aths,  and  many  a  mile  astray 
from  their  right  track,  still  they  must  have  kept  together  to 
the  very  plateau  or  shelf  of  rock  at  which  their  wanderings 
had  terminated ;  for  there  were  evidently  no  steps  from  this 
plateau  in  the  retrograde  order. 

By  the  time  they  had  reached  this  final  stage  of  their 
erroneous  course,  all  possibility  of  escape  must  have  been 
long  over  for  both  alike ;  because  their  exhaustion  must 
have  been  excessive  before  they  could  have  reached  a  point 
so  remote  and  liigh  ;  and,  unfortunately,  the  direct  result  of 
all  this  exhaustion  had  been  to  throw  them  farther  off  their 
home,  or  from  "  any  dwelling-place  of  man,"  than  they  were 
at  starting.  Here,  therefore,  at  this  rocky  pinnacle,  hope 
was  extinct  for  either  party.  But  it  was  the  impression  of 
the  vale,  that,  perhaps  within  half  an  hour  before  reaching 
this  fatal  point,  George  Green  might,  had  his  conscience  or 
his  heart  allowed  him  in  so  base  a  desertion,  have  saved 
himself  singly,  \vithout  any  very  great  difficulty.  It  is  to  be 
hoped,  however,  —  and,  for  my  part,  I  think  too  well  of 


A   MOUNTAIN   CATASTROPHE.  237 

human  nature  to  hesitate  in  believing,  —  that  not  many, 
even  amongst  the  meaner-minded  and  the  least  generous  of 
men,  could  have  reconciled  themselves  to  the  abandonment 
of  a  poor  fainting  female  companion  in  such  circumstances. 
StUl,  though  not  more  than  a  most  imperative  duty,  it  was 
one  (I  repeat)  wliich  most  of  his  associates  believed  to  have 
cost  him  (perhaps  consciously)  his  life.  For  his  wife  not 
only  must  have  disabled  him  greatly  by  clinging  to  liis  arm 
for  support ;  but  it  was  known,  from  her  peculiar  charactei 
and  manner,  that  she  would  be  likely  to  rob  liim  of  liis 
«50olness  and  presence  of  mind  by  too  painfully  fixing  his 
thoughts,  where  her  own  would  be  busiest,  upon  their  help- 
less little  family.  "  Stung  with  the  thoughts  of  home,"  —  to 
borrow  the  fine  expression  of  Thomson  in  describing  a  sim- 
"ilar  case,  —  alternately  thinking  of  the  blessedness  of  that 
warm  fireside  at  Blentam  Ghyll,  which  was  not  again  to 
spread  its  genial  glow  through  her  freezing  limbs,  and  of 
those  darling  little  faces  which,  in  this  world,  she  was  to  see 
no  more  ;  unintentionally,  and  without  being  aware  even  of 
that  result,  she  would  rob  the  brave  man  (for  such  he  was) 
of  his  fortitude,  and  the  strong  man  of  his  animal  resources. 
And  yet,  —  (such  in  the  very  opposite  direction,  Avas  equally 
the  impression  universally  through  Grasmere,y — had  Sarah 
Green  foreseen,  could  her  affectionate  heart  have  guessed 
even  the  tenth  part  of  that  love  and  neighborly  respect  for 
herself  which  soon  afterwards  expressed  themselves  in  si  low- 
ers of  bounty  to  her  children  ;  could  she  have  looked  beliind 
the  curtain  of  destiny  sufficiently  to  learn  that  tlie  very  des- 
olation of  these  poor  cliildren  wliicli  wrung  her  maternal 
heart,  and  doubtless  constituted  to  her  the  sting  of  death, 
would  prove  the  signal  and  the  pledge  of  such  anxious 
guardianship  as  not  many  rich  men's  childi-en  receive,  and 
that  this  overflowing  offering  to  her  own  memory  would  not 
be  a  hasty  or  decaying  tribute  of  the  first  sorrowing  sensi- 
bilities, but  would  pursue  her  children  steadily  until  their 


238  THOMAS  DE   QUINCEY. 

hopeful  settlement  in  life,  —  or  anything  approaching  tliig, 
to  have  known  or  have  guessed,  would  have  caused  her  (as 
all  said  who  knew  her)  to  welcome  the  bitter  end  by  which 
such  privileges  were  to  be  purchased. 

The  funeral  of  the  ill-fated  Greens  was,  it  may  be  sup- 
posed, attended  by  all  the  vale ;  it  took  place  about  eight 
days  after  they  were  found  ;  and  the  day  happened  to  be  in 
the  most  perfect  contrast  to  the  sort  of  weather  which  pre- 
vailed at  the  time  of  their  misfortune :  some  snow  still 
remained  here  and  there  upon  the  ground ;  but  the  azure  of 
the  sky  was  unstamed  by  a  cloud,  and  a  golden  sunhght 
seemed  to  sleep,  so  balmy  and  tranquU  was  the  season,  upon 
the  very  hUls  where  they  had  wandered,  —  then  a  howling 
wilderness,  but  now  a  green  pastoral  lawn,  in  its  lower 
ranges,  and  a  glittering  expanse,  smooth,  apparently,  and 
not  difficult  to  the  footing,  of  virgin  snow,  in  its  higher. 
George  Green  had,  I  believe,  an  elder  family  by  a  former 
wife  ;  and  it  was  for  some  of  these  children,  who  lived  at  a 
distance,  and  who  wished  to  give  their  attendance  at  the 
grave,  that  the  funeral  was  delayed.  After  this  solemn 
ceremony  was  over,  —  at  which,  by  the  way,  I  then  heard 
Miss  "Wordsworth  say  that  the  gi-ief  of  Sarah's  illegitimate 
daughter  was  the  most  overwhelming  she  had  ever  wit- 
nessed,—  a  regular  distribution  of  the  children  was  made 
amongst  the  wealthier  families  of  the  vale.  There  had 
already,  and  before  the  funeral,  been  a  perfect  struggle  to 
obtain  one  of  the  children,  amongst  all  who  had  any  facili- 
ties for  discharging  the  duties  of  such  a  trust ;  and  even  the 
poorest  had  put  in  their  claim  to  bear  some  part  in  the 
expenses  of  the  case.  But  it  was  judiciously  decided  that 
none  of  the  children  should  be  intnisted  to  any  pei*sons  who 
seemed  likely,  either  from  old  age  or  from  slender  means,  or 
from  nearer  and  more  personal  responsibilities,  to  be  imder 
the  necessity  of  devolving  the  trust,  sooner  or  later,  upon 
strangers,  who  might  have  none  of  that  interest  in  the  chil- 


A  MOUNTAIN  CATASTROrHE.  230 

dren  which  attached,  in  their  minds,  the  Grasmere  people  to 
the  circumstances  that  made  them  orphans.  Two  twins, 
who  had  naturally  played  together  and  slept  together  from 
their  birth,  passed  into  the  same  family:  the  others  were 
dispersed ;  but  into  such  kind-hearted  and  intelligent  fami- 
lies, with  continued  opportunities  of  meeting  each  other  on 
errands,  or  at  church,  or  at  sales,  that  it  was  hard  to  say 
which  had  the  happier  fate.  And  thus  in  so  brief  a  period 
as  one  fortnight,  a  household  that,  by  health  and  strength, 
by  the  humility  of  poverty,  and  by  innocence  of  life,  seemed 
sheltered  from  all  attacks  but  those  of  tune,  came  to  be 
utterly  broken  up.  George  and  Sarah  Green  slept  in  Gras- 
mere churchyard,  never  more  to  know  the  want  of  "  sun  or 
guiding  star."  Their  children  were  scattered  over  wealthier 
houses  than  those  of  their  poor  parents,  through  the  vales  of 
Grasmere  or  Rydal ;  a,nd  Blentam  Ghyll,  after  being  shut 
up  for  a  season,  and  ceasing  for  months  to  send  up  its  little 
slender  column  of  smok6  at  morning  and  evening,  finally 
passed  into  the  hands  of  a  stranger. 


THRENODY. 

By  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

THE  South-wind  brings 
Life,  sunshine,  and  desire. 
And  on  every  mount  and  meadow 
Breathes  aromatic  fire ; 
But  over  the  dead  he  has  no  power, 
The  lost,  the  lost,  he  cannot  restore  ; 
And,  looking  over  the  hills,  I  mourn 
The  darling  who  shall  not  return. 

I  see  my  empty  house, 

I  see  my  trees  repair  their  bouglis ; 

And  he,  the  wondrous  child. 

Whose  silver  warble  wild 

Outvalued  every  pulsing  sound 

Within  the  air's  cerulean  round, — 

The  hyacinthine  boy,  for  whom 

Morn  well  might  break  and  April  bloom,  • 

The  gracious  boy,  who  did  adorn 

The  world  whereinto  he  was  bom, 

And  by  his  countenance  repay 

The  favor  of  the  loving  Day,  — 

Has  disappeared  from  the  Day's  eye  ; 

Far  and  wide  she  cannot  find  him  ; 

My  hopes  pursue,  they  cannot  bind  him. 


THRENODY.  241 

Returned  this  day,  the  South-wind  searches, 
And  finds  young  pines  and  budding  birches ; 
But  finds  not  the  budding  man  ; 
Nature,  who  lost,  cannot  remake  him ; 
Fate  let  him  fall,  Fate  can't  retake  him ; 
Nature,  Fate,  men,  him  seek  in  vain. 

And  whither  now,  my  truant  wise  and  sweet, 

O,  whither  tend  thy  feet  ? 

I  had  the  right,  few  days  ago, 

Thy  steps  to  watch,  thy  place  to  know ; 

How  have  I  forfeited  the  right  ? 

Hast  thou  forgot  me  in  a  new  delight  ? 

I  hearken  for  thy  household  cheer, 

0  eloquent  child ! 

Whose  voice,  an  equal  messenger, 

Conveyed  ^hy  meaning  mild. 

What  though  the  pains  and  joys 

Whereof  it  spoke  were  toys 

Fitting  his  age  and  ken. 

Yet  fairest  dames  and  bearded  men. 

Who  heard  the  sweet  request, 

So  gentle,  wise,  and  grave, 

Bended  with  joy  to  his  behest, 

And  let  the  world's  affairs  go  by, 

Awhile  to  share  his  cordial  game, 

Or  mend  his  wicker  wagon-frame, 

Still  plotting  how  their  hungry  ear 

That  winsome  voice  again  might  hear ; 

For  his  lips  could  well  pronounce 

Words  that  were  persuasions. 

Gentlest  guardians  marked  serene 
His  early  hope,  his  liberal  mien ; 

16 


242  RALPH  WALDO  E5IERS0N. 

Took  counsel  from  his  guiding  eyes 
To  make  this  wisdom  earthly  wise. 
Ah,  vainly  do  these  eyes  recall 
The  school-march,  each  day's  festival. 
When  every  mom  my  bosom  glowed 
To  watch  the  convoy  on  the  road ; 
The  babe  in  willow  wagon  closed, 
"With  rolling  eyes  and  face  composed ; 
With  children  forward  and  behind. 
Like  Cupids  studiously  inclined ; 
And  he  the  chieftain  paced  beside, 
The  centre  of  the  troop  allied, 
With  sunny  face  of  sweet  repose, 
To  guard  the  babe  from  fancied  foes. 
The  little  captain  innocent 
Took  the  eye  with  him  as  he  went ; 
Each  village  senior  paused  to  scan 
And  speak  the  lovely  caravan. 
From  the  window  I  look  out 
To  mark  thy  beautiful  parade, 
Stately  marching  in  cap  and  coat 
To  some  tune  by  fairies  played;^ 
A  music  heard  by  thee  alone 
To  works  as  noble  led  thee  on. 

Now  Love  and  Pride,  alas !  in  vain. 
Up  and  down  their  glances  strain. 
The  painted  sled  stands  where  it  stood ; 
The  kennel  by  the  corded  wood ; 
The  gathered  sticks  to  stanch  the  wall 
Of  the  snow-tower,  when  snow  should  fall ; 
The  ominous  hole  he  dug  in  the  sand. 
And  childhood's  castles  built  or  planned  ; 
His  daily  haunts  I  well  discern,  — 
The  poultry-yard,  the  shed,  the  bam,  — 


THRLx^ODY.  243 

And  every  inch  of  garden  ground 

Paced  by  the  blessed  feet  around, 

From  the  roadside  to  the  brook 

Whereinto  he  loved  to  look. 

Step  the  meek  birds  where  erst  they  ranged ; 

The  wintry  garden  lies  unchanged ; 

The  brook  into  the  stream  runs  on ; 

But  the  deep-eyed  boy  is  gone. 

On  that  shaded  day, 

Dark  with  more  clouds  than  tempests  are, 

When  thou  didst  yield  thy  innocent  breath 

In  bird-like  heavings  unto  death, 

Night  came,  and  Nature  had  not  thee ; 

I  said,  "  We  are  mates  in  misery." 

The  morrow  .dawned  with  needless  glow; 

Each  snow-bird  chirped,  each  fowl  must  crow ; 

Each  tramper  Started  ;  but  the  feet 

Of  the  most  beautiful  and  sweet 

Of  human  youth  had  left  the  hill 

And  garden,  —  they  were  bound  and  still. 

There 's  not  a  sparrow  or  a  wren, 

There 's  not  a  blade  of  autumn  grain, 

Which  the  four  seasons  do  not  tend, 

And  tides  of  life  and  increase  lend ; 

And  every  chick  of  every  bird. 

And  weed  and  rock-moss  is  preferred. 

0  ostrich-like  forgetfulness ! 

O  loss  of  larger  in  tlie  less ! 

Was  there  no  star  that  could  be  sent, 

No  watcher  in  the  firmament, 

No  angel  from  the  countless  host 

That  loiters  round  the  crystal  coast, 

Could  stoop  to  heal  that  only  child. 

Nature's  sweet  marvel  undefiled. 

And  keep  the  blossom  of  the  earth. 

Which  all  her  harvests  were  not  worth  ? 


844  KALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Not  mine,  —  I  never  call  thee  mine. 

But  Nature's  heir,  —  if  I  repine, 

And  seeing  rashly  torn  and  moved 

Not  what  I  made,  but  what  I  loved, 

Grow  early  old  with  grief  that  thou 

Must  to  the  wastes  of  Nature  go,  — 

'T  is  because  a  general  hope 

Was  quenched,  and  all  must  doubt  and  grope. 

For  flattering  planets  seemed  to  say 

This  child  should  ills  of  ages  stay. 

By  wondrous  tongue,  and  guided  pen, 

Bring  the  flown  Muses  back  to  men. 

Perchance  not  he  but  Nature  ailed, 

The  world  and  not  the  infant  failed. 

It  was  not  ripe  yet  to  sustain 

A  genius  of  so  fine  a  strain. 

Who  gazed  upon  the  sun  and  moon 

As  if  he  came  unto  his  own. 

And,  pregnant  with  his  grander  thought, 

Brought  the  old  order  into  doubt. 

His  beauty  once  their  beauty  tried ; 

They  could  not  feed  him,  and  he  died. 

And  wandered  backward  as  in  scorn, 

To  wait  an  aeon  to  be  bom. 

HI  day  which  made  this  beauty  waste, 

Plight  broken,  this  high  face  defaced ! 

Some  went  and  came  about  the  dead ; 

And  some  in  books  of  solace  read ; 

Some  to  their  friends  the  tidings  say  ; 

Some  went  to  write,  some  went  to  pray 

One  tarried  here,  there  hurried  one  ; 

But  their  heart  abode  with  none. 

Covetous  death  bereaved  us  all, 

To  aggrandize  one  funeral. 

The  eager  fate  which  carried  thee 

Took  the  largest  part  of  me : 


THRENODY.  245 

For  this  losing  is  true  dying ; 
This  is  lordly  man's  down-lying, 
This  his  slow  but  sure  reclining, 
Star  by  star  his  world  resigning. 

0  child  of  paradise, 

Boy  who  made  dear  his  father's  home, 

In  whose  deep  eyes 

Men  read  the  welfare  of  the  times  to  come, 

1  am  too  much  bereft. 

The  world  dishonored  thou  hast  left. 
0  truth's  and  nature's  costly  lie  ! 
0  trusted  broken  prophecy ! 
0  richest  fortune  sourly  crossed ! 
Bom  for  the  future,  to  the  future  lost ! 

The  deep  Heart  answered,  "  Weepest  thou? 

"Worthier  cause  for  passion  wild 

If  I  had  not  taken  the  child. 

And  deemest  thou  as  those  who  pore, 

With  aged  eyes,  short  way  before,  — 

Think'st  Beauty  vanished  from  the  coast 

Of  matter,  and  thy  darling  lost? 

Taught  he  not  thee  —  the  man  of  eld, 

Wliose  eyes  within  his  eyes  beheld 

Heaven's  numerous  hierarchy  span 

The  mystic  gulf  from  God  to  man  ? 

To  be  alone  wilt  thou  begin 

When  worlds  of  lovers  hem  thee  in  ? 

To-morrow,  when  the  masks  shall  fall 

That  dizen  Nature's  carnival, 

The  pure  shall  see  by  their  own  will, 

Which  overflowing  Love  shall  fill, 

'T  is  not  within  the  force  of  fate 

The  fate-conjoined  to  sepai-ate. 


246  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

But  thou,  my  votary,  weepest  thou  ? 

I  gave  thee  sight  —  where  is  it  now  ? 

I  taught  thy  heart  beyond  the  reach 

Of  ritual,  bible,  or  of  speech ; 

Wrote  in  thy  mind's  transparent  table, 

As  far  as  the  incommunicable  ; 

Taught  thee  each  private  sign  to  raise, 

Lit  by  the  supersolar  blaze. 

Past  utterance,  and  past  belief. 

And  past  the  blasphemy  of  grief, 

The  mysteries  of  Nature's  heart ; 

And  though  no  Muse  can  these  impart. 

Throb  thine  with  Nature's  throbbing  breast, 

And  all  is  dear  &om  east  to  west. 

"  I  came  to  thee  as  to  a  friend ; 
Dearest,  to  thee  I  did  not  send 
Tutors,  but  a  joyful  eye. 
Innocence  that  matched  the  sky, 
Lovely  locks,  a  form  of  wonder. 
Laughter  rich  as  woodland  thunder, 
That  thou  might'st  entertain  apart 
The  richest  flowering  of  all  art : 
And  as  the  great  all-loving  Day 
Through  smallest  chambers  takes  ks  way, 
That  thou  might'st  break  thy  daily  bread 
"With  prophet,  saviour,  and  head ; 
That  thou  might'st  cherish  for  thine  own 
The  riches  of  sweet  Mary's  Son, 
Boy-Rabbi,  Israel's  paragon. 
And  thoughtest  thou  such  guest 
Would  in  thy  hall  take  up  his  rest  ? 
Would  rushing  life  forget  her  laws. 
Fate's  glowing  revolution  pause  ? 
High  omens  ask  diviner  guess ; 
Not  to  be  conned  to  tediousness. 


THRENODY.  247 

And  kuow  my  higher  gifts  unbind 
The  zone  that  girds  the  incarnate  mind. 
When  the  scanty  shores  are  full 
With  Thought's  perilous,  whirling  pool ; 
When  frail  Nature,  can  no  more, 
Then  the  Spirit  strikes  the  hour : 
My  servant  Death,  with  solving  rite, 
Pours  finite  into  infinite. 

"  Wilt  thou  freeze  love's  tidal  flow, 

Whose  streams  through  nature  circling  go  ? 

NaU  the  wild  star  to  its  track 

On  the  half-climbed  zodiac  ? 

Light  is  light  which  radiates. 

Blood  is  blood  which  circulates, 

Life  is  life  which  generates. 

And  many-seenaing  life  is  one,  — 

Wilt  thou  transfix  and  make  it  none  ? 

Its  onward  force  too  starkly  pent 

In  figure,  bone,  and  lineament? 

WUt  thou,  uncalled,  interrogate, 

Talker !  the  unreplying  Fate  ? 

Nor  see  the  genius  of  the  whole 

Ascendant  in  the  private  soul, 

Beckon  it  when  to  go  and  come, 

Self-announced  its  hour  of  doom? 

Fair  the  soul's  recess  and  shrine, 

Magic-built  to  last  a  season  ; 

Masterpiece  of  love  benign ; 

Fairer  than  expansive  reason 

Whose  omen  't  is,  and  sign. 

Wilt  thou  not  ope  thy  heart  to  know 

What  rainbows  teach,  and  sunsets  show  ? 

Verdict  which  accumulates 

From  lengthening  scroll  of  human  fates, 


248  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Voice  of  earth  to  earth  returned, 
Prayera  of  saints  that  inly  burned,— 
Saying,  What  is  excellent, 
As  God  lives,  is  permanent ; 
Hearts  are  dust,  hearts'  loves  remain  f 
Hearts  love  will  meet  thee  again. 
Revere  the  Maker ;  fetch  thine  eye 
Up  to  his  style,  and  manners  of  the  sky. 
Not  of  adamant  and  gold 
Built  he  heaven  stark  and  cold ; 
No,  but  a  nest  of  bending  reeds. 
Flowering  grass,  and  scented  weeds ; 
Or  like  a  traveller's  fleeing  tent, 
Or  bow  above  the  tempest  bent ; 
Built  of  tears  and  sacred  flames, 
And  virtue  reaching  to  its  aims ; 
Built  of  furtherance  and  pursuuig, 
Not  of  spent  deeds,  but  of  doing. 
Silent  rushes  the  swift  Lord 
Through  ruined  systems  still  restored, 
Broadsowing,  bleak  and  void  to  bless, 
Plants  with  worlds  the  wilderness  ; 
Waters  with  tears  of  ancient  sorrow 
Apples  of  Eden  ripe  to-morrow. 
House  and  tenant  go  to  ground, 
Lost  in  Grod^  in  Godhead  found.** 


y  / //,       ■  V/  A .  >  //  /  .  //./  ^  / 


LAST  DAYS  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

By  JOHN  G.  LOCKHART. 


THE  last  jotting  of  Sir  "Walter's  Diary  —  perhaps  the 
last  specimen  of  his  handwriting  —  records  his  starting 
from  Naples  on  the  16th  of  April,  1832.  After  the  11th 
of  May  the  story  -can  hardly  be  told  too  bi'iefly. 

The  irritation  of  impatience,  wliich  had  for  a  moment 
been  suspended  by  the  aspect  and  society  of  Rome,  re- 
turned the  moment  he  found  himself  on  the  road,  and 
seemed  to  increase  hourly.  His  companions  could  with 
difficulty  prevail  on  him  to  see  even  the  Falls  of  Terni,  or 
the  Church  of  Santa  Croce,  at  Florence.  On  the  17th,  a 
cold  and  dreary  day,  they  passed  the  Apennines,  and  dined 
on  the  top  of  the  mountains.  The  snow  and  the  pines  re- 
called Scotland,  and  he  expressed  pleasure  at  the  sight  of 
them.  That  night  they  reached  Bologna,  and  he  would 
see  none  of  the  interesting  objects  there,  —  and  next  day, 
hurrying  in  like  manner  through  Ferrara,  he  proceeded 
as  far  as  Monselice.  On  the  lOtli  he  arrived  at  Venice; 
and  he  remained  there  till  the  23d ;  but  showed  no  curi- 
osity about  anything  except  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  and  the 
adjoining  dungeons,  —  down  into  wliich  he  would  scramble, 
though  the  exertion  was  exceeding  painful  to  him.  On 
the  other  historical  features  of  that  place  —  one  so  sure  iu 
other  days  to  have  inexhaustible  attractions  for  him  —  he 
would  not  even  look ;  and  it  was  the  same  with  all  that  he 


250  JOHN  G.  LOCKHART. 

came  within  reach  of — even  with  the  fondly  anticipated 
chapel  at  Inspruck  —  as  they  proceeded  through  the  Tyrol, 
and  so  onwards,  by  Munich,  Ulm,  and  Heidelberg,  to 
Frankfort.  Here  (June  5)  he  entered  a  bookseller's  shop ; 
and  the  people  seeing  an  Enghsh  party,  brought  out 
among  the  first  things  a  lithographed  print  of  Abbotsford. 
He  said,  "  I  know  that  already,  sir,"  and  hastened  back  to 
the  inn  without  being  recognized.  Though  in  some  parts 
of  the  journey  they  had  very  severe  weather,  he  repeat- 
edly wished  to  travel  all  the  night  as  well  as  all  the  day ; 
and  the  symptoms  of  an  approaching  fit  were  so  obvious, 
that  he  was  more  than  once  bled,  ere  they  reached  May- 
ence,  by  the  hand  of  his  affectionate  domestic. 

At  this  town  they  embarked  on  the  8th  June  in  the 
Rhine  steamboat;  and  while  they  descended  the  famous 
river  through  its  most  picturesque  region,  he  seemed  to 
enjoy,  though  he  said  nothing,  the  perhajjs  unrivalled 
scenery  it  presented  to  him.  His  eye  was  fixed  on  the 
successive  crags  and  castles,  and  ruined  monasteries,  each 
of  which  had  been  celebrated  in  some  German  ballad  fa- 
miliar to  his  ear,  and  all  of  them  blended  in  the  immortal 
panorama  of  Childe  Harold.  But  so  soon  as  he  resumed 
his  carriage  at  Cologne,  and  nothing  but  flat  shores,  and 
here  and  there  a  grove  of  poplars  and  a  village  spire  were 
offered  to  the  vision,  the  weight  of  misery  sunk  doAvn  again 
upon  him.  It  was  near  Nimeguen,  on  the  evening  of  the 
9  th,  that  he  sustained  another  serious  attack  of  apoplexy, 
combined  with  paralysis.  Nicolson's  lancet  restored,  after 
the  lapse  of  some  minutes,  the  signs  of  animation ;  but  this 
was  the  crowning  blow.  Next  day  he  insisted  on  resuming 
his  journey,  and  on  the  11th  was  lifted  from  the  carriage 
into  a  steamboat  at  Rotterdam. 

He  reached  London  about  six  o'clock  on  the  evening  of 
"Wednesday  the  13th  of  June.  Owing  to  the  unexpected 
rapidity  of  the  journey  his   eldest  daughter  had  had  no 


LAST  DATS  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  251 

notico,  when  to  expect  him;  and  fearful  of  finding  her 
either  out  of  town,  or  unprepared  to  receive  him  and  his 
attendants  under  her  roof,  Charles  Scott  droye  to  the  St. 
James's  hotel,  in  Jermjn  Street,  and  established  his  quar- 
ters there  before  he  set  out  in  quest  of  his  sister  and  myself. 
"When  we  reached  the  hotel,  he  recognized  us  with  every 
mark  of  tenderness,  but  signified  that  he  was  totally  ex- 
hausted; so  no  attempt  was  made  to  remove  him  further, 
and  he  was  put  to  bed  immediately.  Dr.  Ferguson  saw 
him  the  same  night,  and  next  day  Sir  Henry  Halford  and 
Dr.  Holland  saw  him  also;  and  during  the  next  tlu-eo 
weeks  the  two  former  visited  him  daily,  whUe  Ferguson 
was  scarcely  absent  from  his  pillow.  The  Major  was  soon 
on  the  spot.  To  his  children,  all  assembled  once  more 
about  him,  he  repeatedly  gave  his  blessing  in  a  very  solemn 
maimer,  as  if  expect^g  immediate  death,  but  he  was  never 
in  a  condition  for  conversation,  and  sunk  either  into  sleep 
or  dehrious  stupor  upon  the  slightest  effort. 

Mrs.  Thomas  Scott  came  to  town  as  soon  as  she  heard 
of  his  arrival,  and  remained  to  help  us.  She  was  more 
than  once  recognized  and  thanked.  Mr.  Cadell,  too,  ar- 
rived from  Edinburgh,  to  render  any  assistance  in  his 
power.  I  think  Sir  "Walter  saw  no  other  of  his  friends  ex- 
cept Mr.  John  Richardson,  and  him  only  once.  As  usual, 
he  woke  up  at  the  sound  of  a  familiar  voice,  and  made  an 
attejnpt  to  put  forth  his  hand,  but  it  dropped  powerless,  and 
he  said,  with  a  smile,  "Excuse  my  hand."  Richardson 
made  a  struggle  to  suppress  his  emotion,  and  after  a  mo- 
ment, got  out  something  about  Abbotsford  and  the  woods 
which  he  had  happened  to  see  shortly  before.  Tlie  eye 
brightened,  and  he  said,  "How  does  Kirklands  get  on?" 
Mr.  Richardson  had  lately  purchased  the  estate  so  called 
on  the  Teviot,  and  Sir  Walter  had  left  him  busied  with 
plans  of  building.  His  friend  told  him  that  liis  new  house 
was   begun,  and   that   the   Marquis  of  Lothian   had   very 


252  JOHN  G.  LOCKHART. 

kindly  lent  him  one  of  his  own,  meantime,  in  its  vicinity. 
"  Ay,  Lord  Lotliian  is  a  good  man,"  said  Sir  "Walter ;  "  he 
is  a  man  from  whom  one  may  receive  a  favor,  and  that 's 
saying  a  good  deal  for  any  man  in  these  days."  The  stu- 
por then  sank  hack  upon  him,  and  Richardson  never  heard 
his  voice  again.  This  state  of  things  continued  till  the 
beginning  of  July.  ^ 

During  those  melancholy  weeks  great  interest  and  sj-m- 
pathy  were  manifested.  Allan  Cunningham  mentions  that, 
walking  home  late  one  night,  he  found  several  working- 
men  standing  together  at  the  comer  of  Jermyn  Street,  and 
one  of  them  asked  liim,  as  if  there  was  but  one  death-bed 
in  London,  "  Do  you  know,  sir,  if  tliis  is  the  street  where 
he  is  lying?"  The  inquiries  both  at  the  hotel  and  at  my 
house  were  incessant ;  and  I  think  there  was  hardly  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Royal  family  who  did  not  send  every  day.  The 
newspaj)ers  teemed  with  paragraphs  about  Sir  Walter ;  and 
one  of  these,  it  appears,  threw  out  a  suggestion  that  his 
travels  had  exhausted  his  pecuniary  resources,  and  that  if 
he  were  capable  of  reflection  at  all,  cares  of  that  sort  might 
probably  harass  his  pillow.  This  paragraph  came  from  a 
very  ill-informed,  but,  I  dare  say,  a  well-meaning  quarter. 
It  caught  the  attention  of  some  members  of  the  then  gov- 
ernment; and,  in  consequence,  I  received  a  private  com- 
munication to  the  effect  that,  if  the  case  were  as  stated,  Sir 
"Walter's  family  had  only  to  say  what  sum  would  relieve 
him  fi'om  embarrassment,  and  it  would  be  immediately 
advanced  by  the  Treasury.  The  then  Paymaster  of  the 
Forces,  Lord  John  Russell,  had  the  delicacy  to  convey  this 
message  through  a  lady  with  whose  friendship  he  knew  us 
to  be  honored.  "We  expressed  our  grateful  sense  of  his 
politeness,  and  of  the  liberality  of  the  government,  and  I 
now  beg  leave  to  do  so  once  more ;  but  his  Lordship  was 
of  course  informed  that  Sir  "Walter  Scott  was  not  situated 
as  the  jomnalist  had  represented. 


LAST  DAYS  OF   SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  253 

Dr.  Ferguson's  memorandum  on  Jermym  Street  will  be 
acceptable  to  tbe  reader.     He  says :  — 

"When  I  saw  Sir  Walter  he  was  lying  in  the  second 
floor  back-room  of  the  St.  James's  Hotel,  in  Jermyn  Street, 
in  a  state  of  stupor,  from  which,  however,  he  could  be 
roused  for  a  moment  by  being  addressed,  and  then  he  rec- 
ognized those  about  him,  but  immediately  relapsed.  I 
think  I  never  saw  anything  more  magnificent  than  the 
symmetry  of  his  colossal  bust,  as  he  lay  on  the  pillow  with 
liis  chest  and  neck  exposed.  During  the  time  he  was  in 
Jermyn  Street  he  was  calm,  but  never  collected,  and  in 
general  either  in  absolute  stupor  or  in  a  waking  dream. 
He  never  seemed  to  know  where  he  was,  but  imagined 
himself  to  be  still  in  the  steamboat.  The  rattling  of  car- 
riages, and  the  noises  of  the  street  sometimes  disturbed  this 
illusion,  and  then  he  fancied  himself  at  the  polling-booth 
of  Jedburgh,  where  he  had  been  insulted  and  stoned. 

"  During  the  whole  of  this  period  of  apparent  helpless- 
ness, the  great  features  of  his  character  could  not  be  mis- 
taken. He  always  exhibited  great  self-possession,  and 
acted  his  part  with  wondei-ful  power  whenever  visited, 
though  he  relapsed  the  next  moment  into  the  stupor  from 
which  strange  voices  had  roused  him.  A  gentleman  stum- 
bled over  a  chair  in  his  dark  room ;  —  he  immediately 
started  up,  and  though  unconscious  that  it  was  a  friend, 
expressed  as  much  concern  and  feeling  as  if  he  had  never 
been  laboring  under  the  instability  of  disease.  It  was  im- 
possible even  for  those  who  most  constantly  saw  and  waited 
on  him  in  his  then  deplorable  condition  to  relax  from  the 
habitual  deference  which  he  had  always  inspired.  He 
expressed  his  will  as  determinedly  as  ever,  and  enforced  it 
with  the  same  apt  and  good-natured  irony  as  he  was  wont 
to  use. 

"  At  length  his  constant  yearning  to  return  to  Abbotsford 
induced  his  physicians  to  consent  to  his  removal,  and  the 


254  JOHN  G.  LOCKHART. 

moment  this  was  notified  to  him,  it  seemed  to  infuse  ne\» 
vigor  into  his  frame.  It  was  on  a  calm,  clear  afternoon  of 
the  7th  July,  that  every  preparation  was  made  for  his 
embarkation  on  board  the  steamboat.  He  was  placed  on  a 
chair  by  his  faithful  servant,  Nicolson,  half  dressed,  and 
loosely  wrapped  in  a  quUted  dressing-gown.  He  requested 
Lockhart  and  myself  to  wheel  him  towards  the  light  of  the 
open  window,  and  we  both  remarked  the  vigorous  lustre  of 
his  eye.  He  sat  there  silently  gazing  on  space  for  more 
than  half  an  hour,  apparently  wholly  occupied  with  his  own 
thoughts,  and  having  no  distinct  perception  of  where  he 
was  or  how  he  came  there.  He  suffered  himself  to  be 
lifted  into  his  carriage,  which  was  surrounded  by  a  crowd 
among  whom  were  many  gentlemen  on  horseback,  who  had 
loitered  about  to  gaze  on  the  scene. 

"  His  children  were  deeply  affected,  and  Mrs.  Lockhart 
trembled  from  head  to  foot  and  wept  bitterly.  Thus  sur- 
rounded by  those  nearest  to  him,  he  alone  was  unconscious 
of  the  cause  or  the  depth  of  their  grief,  and  while  yet  alive 
seemed  to  be  carried  to  his  grave." 

On  this  his  last  journey.  Sir  Walter  was  attended  by  hia 
two  daughters,  JVIr.  Cadell,  and  myself,  and  also  by  Dr. 
James  Watson,  who  (it  being  impossible  for  Dr.  Ferguson 
to  leave  town  at  that  moment)  kindly  undertook  to  see  him 
safe  at  Abbotsford.  We  embarked  in  the  James  Watt 
steamboat,  the  master  of  which  (Captain  John  Jamieson),  as 
well  as  the  agent  of  the  proprietors,  made  every  arrange- 
ment in  tlieir  power  for  the  convenience  of  the  invalid. 
The  Captain  gave  up  for  Sir  Walter's  use  his  own  private 
cabin,  which  was  a  separate  erection,  a  sort  of  cottage,  on 
the  deck;  and  he  seemed  unconscious,  after  laid  in  bed 
there,  that  any  new  removal  had  occurred.  On  arriving  at 
Newhaven,  late  on  the  9th,  we  found  careful  preparations 
made  for  liis  landing  by  the  manager  of  the  Shipping  Com- 
pany (IVIr.  Hamilton) ;   and   Sii*  Walter,   prostrate   in   hia 


LAST  DAYS  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  255 

carriage,  was  slung  on  shore,  and  conveyed  from  thence  to 
Douglas's  hotel,  in  St.  Andrew's  Square,  in  the  same  com- 
plete apparent  unconsciousness.  Mrs.  Douglas  had  in 
former  days  been  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch's  housekeeper 
at  BowhiU,  and  she  and  her  husband  had  also  made  the 
most  suitable  provision.  At  a  very  early  hour  on  the 
morning  of  "Wednesday,  the  11th,  we  again  placed  him  in 
his  carriage,  and  he  lay  in  the  same  torpid  state  during  the 
first  two  stages  on  the  road  to  Tweedside.  But  as  we  de- 
scended the  vale  of  the  Gala  he  began  to  gaze  about  him, 
and  by  degrees  it  was  obvious  that  he  was  recognizing  the 
features  of  that  familiar  landscape.  Presently  he  mur- 
mured a  name  or  two,  —  Gala  Water,  surely,  —  Buck- 
holm,  —  Torwoodlee."  As  we  rounded  the  liill  at  Ladhope, 
and  the  outline  of  the.Eildons  burst  on  him,  he  became 
greatly  excited,  and  when  turning  himself  on  the  couch  his 
eye  caught  at  length  tlis  own  towers,  at  the  distance  of  a 
mile,  he  sprang  up  with  a  cry  of  delight.  The  river  being 
in  flood,  we  had  to  go  round  a  few  miles  by  Melrose  bridge, 
and  during  the  time  this  occupied,  his  woods  and  house 
being  within  prospect,  it  required  occasionally  both  Dr. 
Watson's  strength  and  mine,  in  addition  to  Nicolson's,  to 
keep  him  in  the  carriage.  After  passing  the  bridge,  the 
road  for  a  couple  of  miles  loses  sight  of  Abbotsford,  and  he 
relapsed  into  his  stupor;  but  on  gaining  the  bank  imme- 
diately above  it,  his  excitement  became  again  ungovern- 
able. 

Mr.  Laidlaw  was  waiting  at  the  porch,  and  assisted  ns 
in  lifting  him  into  the  dining-room,  where  his  bed  had  been 
prepared.  He  sat  bewildered  for  a  few  moments,  and  then 
resting  his  eye  on  Laidlaw,  said,  "  Ha !  Willie  Laidlaw ! 
O  man,  how  often  have  I  thought  of  you  !  "  By  this  time 
lus  dogs  had  assembled  about  his  chair,  —  they  began  to 
fawn  upon  him  and  lick  his  hands,  and  he  alternately 
sobbed  and  smiled  over  them,  until  sleep  oppressed  him. 


256  JOHN  G.  LOCKHART. 

Dr.  "Watson  having  consulted  on  all  things  with  Mr 
Clarkson  and  his  father,  resigned  the  patient  to  them,  and 
returned  to  London.  None  of  them  could  have  any  hope, 
but  that  of  soothing  irritation.  Recovery  was  no  longer  t< 
be  thought  of;  but  there  might  be  Euihanasia. 

And  yet  something  like  a  ray  of  hope  did  break  ic 
upon  us  next  morning.  Sir  Walter  awoke  perfectly  con 
scious  where  he  was,  and  expressed  an  ardent  wish  to  b« 
carried  out  into  his  garden.  "We  procured  a  Bath-chair  frona 
Huntly-Bum,  and  Laidlaw  and  I  wheeled  him  out  before 
his  door,  and  up  and  down  for  some  time  on  the  turf,  and 
among  the  rose-beds,  then  in  full  bloom.  The  grandchil- 
dren admired  the  new  vehicle,  and  would  be  helping  i» 
their  way  to  push  it  about.  He  sat  in  silence,  smiling  pla- 
cidly on  them,  and  the  dogs  their  companions,  and  now  and 
then  admiring  the  house,  the  screen  of  the  garden,  and  the 
flowera  and  trees.  By  and  by  he  conversed  a  little,  very 
composedly,  with  us,  —  said  he  was  happy  to  be  at  home^ 
—  that  he  felt  better  than  he  had  ever  done  since  he  lefl 
it,  and  would  perhaps  disappoint  the  doctors  after  all. 

lie  then  desired  to  be  wheeled  through  his  rooms,  and 
we  moved  him  leisurely  for  an  hour  or  more  up  and  down 
the  hall  and  the  great  library.  "I  have  seen  much,"  h« 
kept  saying,  "but  nothing  Uke  my  ain  house,  —  give  mo 
one  turn  more ! "  He  was  gentle  as  an  infant,  and  allowed 
himself  to  be  put  to  bed  again,  the  moment  we  told  him 
that  we  thought  he  had  had  enough  for  one  day. 

Next  morning  he  was  still  better;  after  again  enjoying 
the  Bath-chair  for  perhaps  a  couple  of  hours  out  of  doors, 
he  desired  to  be  drawn  into  the  library,  and  placed  by  the 
central  window,  that  he  might  look  down  upon  the  Tweed. 

Here  he  expressed  a  wish  that  I  should  read  to  him,  and 
when  I  asked  fi-om  what  book,  he  said,  "Need  you  ask? 
There  is  but  one."  I  chose  the  14th  chapter  of  St.  John's 
Gospel;  he  listened  with  mild  devotion,  and  said  when  I 


LAST  DAYS  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  257 

had  done,  "  "Well,  this  is  a  great  comfort,  —  I  have  followed 
you  distinctly,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  were  yet  to  be  myself 
again."  In  this  placid  frame  he  was  again  put  to  bed,  and 
had  many  hours  of  soft  slumber. 

On  the  third  day  ]Mr.  Laidlaw  and  I  again  wheeled  him 
about  the  small  piece  of  lawn  and  shrubbery  in  front  of  the 
house  for  some  time,  and  the  weather  being  delightful,  and 
all  the  richness  of  summer  around  him,  he  seemed  to  taste 
fully  the  balmy  influences  of  nature.  The  sun  getting  xcrj 
strong,  we  halted  the  chair  in  a  shady  corner,  just  witliin 
the  verge  of  his  verdant  arcade  around  the  court-wall ;  and 
breathing  the  coolness  of  the  spot,  he  said,  "  Read  me  some 
amusing  thing,  —  read  me  a  bit  of  Crabbe."  I  brought  out 
the  first  volume  of  his  old  favorite  that  I  could  lay  hand  on, 
and  turned  to  what  I  remembered  as  one  of  his  most  favorite 
passages  in  it,  —  the  description  of  the  anival  of  the  play- 
ers in  the  Borough.  'He  listened  with  great  interest,  and 
also,  as  I  soon  perceived,  with  great  curiosity.  Every 
now  and  then  he  exclaimed,  "Capital  —  excellent — very 
good  —  Crabbe  has  lost  notliing,"  —  and  we  were  too  weU 
satisfied  that  he  considered  himself  as  hearing  a  new  pro- 
duction, when,  chuckling  over  one  couplet,  he  said,  "  Better 
and  better  —  but  how  wiU  poor  Terry  endure  these  cuts?" 
I  went  on  with  the  poet's  terrible  sarcasms  upon  the  theat- 
rical life,  and  he  listened  eagerly,  muttering,  "  Honest 
Dan!"  —  "Dan  won't  like  this."  At  length  I  reached 
those  lines, 

"  Sad  happy  race  !  soon  raised  and  soon  depressed, 
Your  days  all  passed  in  jeopardy  and  jest : 
Poor  without  prudence,  with  afflictions  vain, 
Not  warned  by  misery,  nor  enriched  by  gain." 

"Shut  the  book,"  said  Sir  Walter, — "  I  can't  stand  more  of 
this,  —  it  will  touch  Terry  to  the  very  quick." 

On  the  morning  of  Sunday,  the  lotli,  he  was  again  taken 
out  into  the  little  pleasaunce,  and  got  as  far  as  his  favorite 
17 


258  JOHN  G.  LOCKHART. 

terrace-walk  between  the  garden  and  the  river,  from  which 
he  seemed  to  survey  the  valley  and  the  hills  with  much 
satisfaction.  On  re-entering  the  house,  he  desired  me  to 
read  to  him  from  the  New  Testament,  and  after  that,  he 
again  called  for  a  little  of  Crabbe ;  but  whatever  I  select- 
ed from  that  poet  seemed  to  be  listened  to  as  if  it  made 
part  of  some  new  volume  published  while  he  was  in  Italy. 
He  attended  with  this  sense  of  novelty,  even  to  the  tale  of 
Phoebe  Dawson,  which,  not  many  months  before,  he  could 
have  repeated  every  line  of,  and  which  I  chose  for  one  of 
these  readings,  because,  as  is  known  to  every  one,  it  had 
formed  the  last  solace  of  Mr.  Fox's  death-bed.  On  the  con- 
trary, his  recollection  of  whatever  I  read  from  the  Bible 
appeared  to  be  lively ;  and  in  the  afternoon,  when  we  made 
his  grandson,  a  child  of  six  years,  repeat  some  of  Dr. 
Watts's  hymns  by  his  chair,  he  seemed  also  to  remember 
them  perfectly.  That  evening  he  heard  the  Church  ser- 
vice, and  when  I  was  about  to  close  the  book,  said,  "  Why 
do  you  omit  the  visitation  for  the  sick  ?  "  —  which  I  added 
accordingly. 

On  Monday  he  remained  in  bed  and  seemed  extremely 
feeble;  but  after  breakfast  on  Tuesday,  the  17th,  he  ap- 
peared revived  somewhat,  and  was  again  wheeled  about 
on  the  turf.  Presently  he  fell  asleep  in  his  chair,  and  after 
dozing  for  perhaps  half  an  hour,  started  awake,  and  shak- 
ing the  plaids  we  had  put  about  him  fi-om  off  his  shoul- 
ders, said :  "  This  is  sad  idleness.  I  shall  forget  what  I  have 
been  thinking  of,  if  I  don't  set  it  down  now.  Take  me  into 
my  own  room,  and  fetch  the  keys  of  my  desk."  He  re- 
peated this  so  earnestly  that  we  could  not  refuse ;  his 
daughters  went  into  his  study,  opened  his  writing-desk,  and 
Imd  paper  and  pens  in  the  usual  order,  and  I  then  moved 
him  through  the  hall  and  into  the  spot  where  he  had  al 
ways  been  accustomed  to  work.  "WTien  the  chair  was 
placed  at  the  desk,  and  he  found  himself  in  the  old  posi- 


LAST  DAYS  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  259 

tion,  he  umiled  and  thanked  us,  and  said,  "  Now  give  me 
my  pen,  and  leave  me  for  a  little  to  myself."  Sophia  put 
the  pen  into  his  hand,  and  he  endeavored  to  close  his  fin* 
gers  upon  it,  but  they  refused  their  office,  —  it  dropped  on 
the  paper.  He  sank  back  among  his  pillows,  silent  tears 
rolling  down  his  cheeks  ;  but  composing  himself  by  and  by, 
motioned  to  me  to  wheel  him  out  of  doors  again.  Laidlaw 
met  us  at  the  porch,  and  took  his  turn  of  the  chair.  Sir 
"Walter,  after  a  little  while,  again  dropped  into  slumber. 
When  he  awakened,  Laidlaw  said  to  me,  "  Sir  "Walter 
has  had  a  little  repose."  "No,  "Willie,"  said  he,  "no 
repose  for  Sir  "Walter  but  in  the  grave."  The  tears  again 
rushed  from  his  eyes.  "  Friends,"  said  he,  "  don't  let  me 
expose  myself —  get  me  to  bed,  —  that 's  the  only  place." 

"With  this  scene  ended  our  glimpse  of  daylight.  Sir 
"Walter  never,  I  think,  left  his  room  afterwards,  and  hardly 
his  bed,  except  for  an  hour  or  two  in  the  middle  of  the 
day ;  and  after  another  week  he  was  unable  even  for  this. 
During  a  few  days  he  was  in  a  state  of  painftil  irritation, 
—  and  I  saw  realized  all  that  he  had  himself  prefigured  in 
his  description  of  the  meeting  between  Crystal  Croftangry 
and  his  paralytic  fi-iend.  Dr.  Ross  came  out  from  Edin- 
burgh, bringing  with  him  his  wife,  one  of  the  dearest  nieces 
of  the  Clerk's  Table.  Sir  "Walter  with  some  difficulty  rec- 
ognized the  Doctor,  —  but,  on  hearing  Mrs.  Ross's  voice, 
exclaimed  at  once,  "  Is  n't  that  Kate  Hume  ?  "  These  kind 
friends  remained  for  two  or  three  days  with  us.  Clarkson's 
lancet  was  pronounced  necessary,  and  the  relief  it  affijrded 
was,  I  am  happy  to  say,  very  effectual 

After  this  he  declined  daily,  but  still  there  was  great 
strength  to  be  wasted,  and  the  process  was  long.  He 
seemed,  however,  to  suffer  no  bodily  pain,  and  his  mind, 
though  hopelessly  obscured,  appeared,  when  there  was  any 
symptom  of  consciousness,  to  be  dwelling,  with  rare  excep- 
tions, on  serious  and  solemn  things ;  the  accent  of  the  voice 


260  JOHN  G.  LOCKHART. 

grave,  sometimes  awful,  but  never  quei-ulous,  anl  very 
seldom  indicative  of  any  angry  or  resentful  thoughts.  Now 
and  then  he  imagined  himself  to  be  administering  justice 
as  Sheriff;  and  once  or  twice  he  seemed  to  be  ordering 
Tom  Purdie  about  trees.  A  few  times  also,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  we  could  perceive  that  his  fancy  was  at  Jedburgh,  — 
and  Burk  Sir  Walter  escaped  him  in  a  melancholy  tone. 
But  commonly  whatever  we  could  follow  him  in  was  a 
fragment  of  the  Bible  (especially  the  Prophecies  of  Isaiah 
and  the  Book  of  Job)  —  of  some  petition  in  the  litany  — 
or  a  verse  of  some  psalm  (in  the  old  Scotch  metrical  ver- 
sion) —  or  of  some  of  the  magnificent  hymns  of  the  Rom- 
ish ritual  in  which  he  had  always  delighted,  but  which 
probably  hung  on  his  memory  now  in  connection  with  the 
church  services  he  had  attended  while  in  Italy.  We  very 
often  heard  distinctly  the  cadence  of  the  Dies  Irce  ;  and  I 
think  that  the  very  last  stanza  that  we  could  make  out  was 
the  first  of  a  stUl  greater  favorite  :  — 
"  Stabat  Mater  dolorosa, 

Juxta  crucem  lachrymosa, 

Dum  pcndebat  Filius." 

All  this  time  he  continued  to  recognize  his  daughters, 
Laidlaw,  and  myself,  whenever  we  spoke  to  him,  —  and 
received  every  attention  with  a  most  touching  thankfulness. 
Mr.  Clarkson,  too,  was  always  saluted  with  the  old  cour- 
tesy, though  the  cloud  opened  but  a  moment  for  him  to 
do  so.  Most  truly  might  it  be  said  that  the  gentleman  sur- 
vived the  genius. 

After  two  or  three  weeks  had  passed  in  this  way,  I  was 
obliged  to  leave  Sir  Walter  for  a  single  day,  and  go  into 
Edinburgh,  to  transact  business  on  his  account,  with  Mr. 
Henry  Cockbum  (now  Lord  Cockbum),  then  Solicitor- 
General  for  Scotland.  The  Scotch  Reform  BUI  threw  a 
great  burden  of  new  duties  and  responsibilities  upon  the 
Sheriffs;  and  Scott's  Sheriff-substitute,  the  Laird  of  Rae- 


LAST  LAYS  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  261 

burn,  not  having  been  regularly  educated  for  the  law,  found 
himself  incompetent  to  encounter  these  novelties,  especially 
as  regarded  the  registration  of  voters,  and  other  details 
connected  with  the  recent  enlargement  of  the  electoral 
franchise.  Under  such  circumstances,  as  no  one  but  the 
Sheriff  could  appoint  another  Substitute,  it  became  neces- 
sary for  Sir  Walter's  family  to  communicate  the  state  he 
was  in  in  a  formal  manner  to  the  Law  Officers  of  the 
Crown ;  and  the  Lord  Advocate  (Mr.  Jeffrey),  in  conse- 
quence, introduced  and  carried  through  Parliament  a  short 
bUl  (2  and  3  "William  IV.  cap.  101),  authorizing  the  gov- 
ernment to  appoint  a  new  Sheriff  of  Selkirksliire,  "  during 
the  incapacity  or  non-resignation  of  Sir  AValter  Scott."  It 
was  on  this  bill  that  the  Solicitor-General  had  expressed  a 
wish  to  converse  with  me ;  but  there  was  little  to  be  said, 
as  the  temporary  nature  of  the  new  appointment  gave  no 
occasion  for  any  pecuniary  question ;  and,  if  that  had  been 
otherwise,  the  circumstances  of  the  case  would  have  ren- 
dered Sir  Walter's  family  entirely  indifferent  upon  such  a 
subject.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that,  if  he  had  recovered 
in  so  far  as  to  be  capable  of  executing  a  resignation,  the 
government  would  have  considered  it  just  to  reward  thirty- 
two  years'  faithful  services  by  a  retired  allowance  equiva- 
lent to  his  salary,  —  and  as  little  that  the  government 
would  have  had  sincere  satisfaction  in  settling  that  matter 
in  the  shape  most  acceptable  to  himself.  And  perhaps 
(though  I  feel  that  it  is  scarcely  worth  while)  I  may  as 
well  here  express  my  regret  that  a  statement  highly  unjust 
and  injurious  should  have  found  its  way  into  the  pages  of 
some  of  Sir  Walter's  preceding  biographers.  These  writ- 
ers have  thought  fit  to  insinuate  that  there  was  a  want  of 
courtesy  and  respect  on  the  part  of  the  Lord  Advocate, 
and  the  other  official  persons  connected  with  this  arrange- 
ment. On  the  contrary,  nothing  could  be  more  handsome 
and  delicate  than  the  whole  of  their  conduct  in  it ;  Mr 


262  JOHN  G.  LOCKHART. 

Cockbum  could  not  have  entered  into  the  case  with  greater 
feeling  and  tenderness,  had  it  concerned  a  brother  of  his 
own  ;  and  when  Mr.  Jeffrey  introduced  his  bill  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  he  used  language  so  graceful  and  touching, 
that  both  Sir  Robert  Peel  and  Mr.  Croker  went  across  the 
House  to  thank  him  cordially  for  it. 

Perceiving,  towards  the  close  of  August,  that  the  end  was 
near,  and  thinking  it  very  likely  that  Abbotsford  might  soon 
undergo  many  changes,  and  myself,  at  all  events,  never  see 
it  again,  I  felt  a  desire  to  have  some  image  preserved  of 
the  interior  apartments  as  occupied  by  their  founder,  and 
invited  from  Edinburgh  for  that  purpose  Sir  Walter's  dear 
friend,  William  Allan, — whose  presence,  I  well  knew, 
would,  even  under  the  circumstances  of  that  time,  be  nowise 
troublesome  to  any  of  the  family,  but  the  contrary  in  all 
respects.  Mr.  Allan  willingly  complied,  and  executed  a 
series  of  beautiful  drawings,  which  may  probably  be  en- 
graved hereafter.  He  also  shared  our  watchings,  and  wit- 
nessed all  but  the  last  moments.  Sir  Walter's  cousins,  the 
ladies  of  Ashestiel,  came  down  frequently,  for  a  day  or 
two  at  a  time,  and  did  whatever  sisterly  affection  could 
prompt,  both  for  the  sufferer  and  his  daughters.  Miss 
Barbara  Scott  (daughter  of  his  Uncle  Thomas)  and  !Mrs. 
Scott  of  Harden  did  the  like. 

As  I  was  dressing  on  the  morning  of  Monday  the  17th 
of  September,  Nicolson  came  into  ray  room,  and  told  me 
that  his  master  had  awoke  in  a  state  of  composure  and  con- 
sciousness, and  wished  to  see  me  immediately.  I  found 
him  entirely  himself,  though  in  the  last  extreme  of  feeble- 
ness. His  eye  was  clear  and  calm  —  every  trace  of  the 
wild  fire  of  delirium  extinguished.  "Lockhart,"  he  said, 
"  I  may  have  but  a  minute  to  speak  to  you.  My  dear,  be 
a  good  man  —  be  virtuous  —  be  religious  —  be  a  good 
man.  Nothing  else  will  give  you  any  comfort  when  you 
come  to  lie  here."    He  paused,  and  I  said,  "  Shall  I  send 


LAST  DAYS  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT.  263 

for  Sophia  and  Anne  ? "  "  No,"  said  he,  "  don  t  disturb 
them.  Poor  souls  !  I  know  they  were  up  all  night  —  God 
bless  you  all."  "With  this  he  sunk  into  a  very  tranquil 
sleep,  and,  indeed,  he  scarcely  afterwards  gave  any  sign 
of  consciousness,  except  for  an  instant  on  the  arrival  of  his 
sons.  They,  on  learning  that  the  scene  was  about  to  close, 
obtained  a  new  leave  of  absence  from  their  posts,  and  both 
reached  Abbotsford  on  the  19th.  About  half  past  one 
P.  M.,  on  the  21st  of  September,  Sir  Walter  breathed  his 
last,  in  the  presence  of  all  his  children.  It  was  a  beautiful 
day,  —  so  warm  that  every  window  was  wide  open,  —  and 
so  perfectly  still  that  the  sound  of  aU  others  most  delicious 
to  his  ear,  the  gentle  ripple  of  the  Tweed  over  its  pebbles, 
was  distinctly  audible  as  we  knelt  around  the  bed,  and  his 
eldest  son  kissed  and  closed  his  eyes. 

No  sculptor  ever  modelled  a  more  majestic  image  of 
repose.  , 

His  funeral  was  conducted  in  an  unostentatious  manner, 
but  the  attendance  was  very  great.  Few  of  his  old  friends 
then  in  Scotland  were  absent,  and  many,  both  friends  and 
strangers,  came  from  a  great  distance.  His  old  domestics 
and  foresters  made  it  their  petition  that  no  hireling  hand 
might  assist  in  carrying  his  remains.  They  themselves 
bore  the  coffin  to  the  hearse,  and  from  the  hearse  to  the 
grave.  The  pall-bearers  were  his  sons,  his  son-in-law,  and 
his  little  grandson  ;  his  cousins,  Charles  Scott  of  Nesbitt, 
James  Scott  of  Jedburgh,  (sons  to  his  Uncle  Thomas,)  Wil- 
liam Scott  of  Raebum,  Robert  Rutherford,  Clerk  to  the 
Signet,  Colonel  (now  Sir  James)  Russell  of  Ashestiel,  Wil- 
liam Keith  (brother  to  Sir  Alexander  Keith  of  Ravelstone), 
and  the  chief  of  his  family,  Hugh  Scott  of  Harden,  now 
Lord  Polwarth. 

When  the  company  were  assembled,  according  to  the 
usual  Scotch  fashion,  prayers  were  offered  up  by  the  very 
Reverend  Dr.  Baird,  Principal  of  the  Univ(;rsity  of  Edin 


264  JOHN  G.  LOCKHART. 

burgh,  and  hj  the  Rev.  Dr.  David  Dickson,  minister  of  St 
Cuthbert's,  who  both  expatiated  in  a  very  striking  manner 
on  the  virtuous  example  of  the  deceased. 

The  court-yard  and  all  the  precincts  of  Abbotsford  were 
crowded  with  uncovered  spectators  as  the  procession  was 
arranged ;  and  as  it  advanced  through  Darnick  and  Mel- 
rose, and  the  adjacent  villages,  the  whole  population  ap- 
peared at  their  doors  in  like  manner,  almost  all  in  black. 
The  train  of  carriages  extended,  I  understand,  over  more 
than  a  mile,  —  the  Yeomanry  followed  in  great  numbers 
on  horseback  —  and  it  was  late  in  the  day  ere  we  reached 
Dry  burgh.  Some  accident,  it  was  observed,  had  caused 
the  hearse  to  halt  for  several  minutes  on  the  summit  of  the 
hill  at  Bemerside  —  exactly  where  a  prospect  of  remarka- 
ble richness  opens,  and  where  Sir  Walter  always  had  been 
accustomed  to  rein  up  his  horse.  The  day  was  dark  and 
lowering,  and  the  wind  high. 

The  wide  enclosure  at  the  abbey  of  Dryburgh  was 
thronged  with  old  and  young;  and  when  the  coffin  was 
taken  from  the  hearse,  and  again  laid  on  the  shoulders  of 
the  afflicted  serving-men,  one  deep  sob  burst  from  a  thousand 
lips.  Mr.  Archdeacon  Williams  read  the  Burial  Service  of 
the  Church  of  England ;  and  thus,  about  half  past  five 
o'clock,  in  the  evening  of  Wednesday,  the  26th  September, 
1832,  the  remains  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  were  laid  by  the 
side  of  his  wife,  in  the  sepulchre  of  his  ancestors,  — "  in 
sure  and  certain  hope  of  the  resurrection  to  eternal  life, 
through  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ ;  who  shall  change  our  vile 
body  that  it  may  be  like  unto  his  glorious  body,  according  to 
the  mighty  working,  whereby  he  is  able  to  subdue  all  things 
to  himself." 


THE   NEW  EDEN. 

(WRITTEN   FOB   A   HOKTICULTURAL   FESTIVAL.) 

By  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

SCARCE  could  the  parting  ocean  dose, 
Seamed  by  the  Mayflower's  cleaving  bow, 
When  o'er  the  rugged  desert  rose 

The  waves  that  tracked  the  Pilgrim's  plough. 

Then  sprang  froA  many  a  rock-strcAvn  field 
The  rippling  grass,  the  nodding  grain, 

Such  growths  as  English  meadows  yield 
To  scanty  sun  and  frequent  rain. 

But  when  the  fiery  days  were  done, 
And  Autumn  brought  his  purple  haze, 

Then,  kindling  in  the  slanted  sun, 

The  hillsides  gleamed  with  golden  maize. 

Nor  treat  his  homely  gift  with  scorn 
Whose  fading  memory  scarce  can  save 

The  hillocks  where  he  sowed  his  com, 

The  mounds  that  mark  his  nameless  grave. 

The  food  was  scant,  the  fruits  were  few : 
A  red-streak  glistened  here  and  there  ; 

Perchance  in  statelier  precincts  grew 
Some  stem  old  Puritanic  pear. 


2G6  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

Austere  in  taste,  and  tough  at  core 
Its  unrelenting  bulk  was  shed, 

To  ripen  in  the  Pilgrim's  store 

"When  all  the  sununer  sweets  were  fled. 

Such  was  his  lot,  to  front  the  storm 
"With  iron  heart  and  marble  brow, 

Nor  ripen  till  his  earthly  form 

Was  cast  from  life's  autumnal  bough. 

But  ever  on  the  bleakest  rock 

"We  bid  the  brightest  beacon  glow, 

And  still  upon  the  thorniest  stock 
The  sweetest  roses  love  to  blow. 

So  on  our  rude  and  wintry  soil 
"We  feed  the  kindling  flame  of  art, 

And  steal  the  tropic's  blushing  spoil 
To  bloom  on  Nature's  icy  heart. 

See  how  the  softening  Mother's  breast 
•         Warms  to  her  children's  patient  Aviles,  — 
Her  lips  by  loving  Labor  pressed 
Break  in  a  thousand  dimpling  smiles, 

From  when  the  flushing  bud  of  June 
Dawns  with  its  first  auroral  hue, 

Till  shines  the  rounded  harvest-moon. 
And  velvet  dahlias  drink  the  dew. 

Nor  these  the  only  gifts  she  brings  ; 

Look  where  the  laboring  orchard  groans. 
And  yields  its  beryl-threaded  strings 

For  chestnut  burs  and  hemlock  cones. 


THE  NEW  EDEN.  267 

Dear  though  the  shadowy  maple  be, 

And  dearer  still  the  whispering  pine, 
Dearest  yon  russet-laden  tree 

BroT\-ned  by  the  heavy  rubbing  kinc ! 

There  childhood  flung  its  venturous  stone, 

And  boyhood  tried  its  daring  clinab, 
And  though  our  summer  birds  have  flown 

It  blooms  as  in  the  olden  time. 

Nor  be  the  Fleming's  pride  forgot, 

"With  swinging  drops  and  drooping  bells, 

Freckled  and  splashed  with  streak  and  spot, 
On  the  warm-breasted,  sloping  swells ; 

Nor  Persia's  painted  garden-queen,  — 

Frail  Houri  of  the  trellised  wall,  — 
Her  deep-cleft  bosom  scarfed  with  green,— 

Fairest  to  see,  and  first  to  fall. 


When  man  provoked  his  mortal  doom, 
And  Eden  trembled  as  he  fell, 

"When  blossoms  sighed  their  last  perfume, 
And  branches  waved  their  long  farewell. 

One  sucker  crept  beneath  the  gate. 
One  seed  was  wafted  o'er  the  wall. 

One  bough  sustained  his  trembling  weight ; 
Tliese  left  the  garden,  —  these  were  all. 

And  far  o'er  many  a  distant  zone 

These  wrecks  of  Eden  still  are  flung ; 

The  fruits  that  Paradise  hath  known 
Are  still  in  eartlily  gardens  hung. 


268  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

Yes,  by  our  own  unstoried  stream 
The  pink-white  apple-blossoms  burst 

That  saw  the  young  Euphrates  gleam,  — 
TTiat  Gihon's  circling  waters  nursed. 

For  us  the  ambrosial  pear  displays 
The  wealth  its  arching  branches  hold, 

Bathed  by  a  hundred  summery  days 
In  floods  of  mingling  fire  and  gold. 

And  here,  where  beauty's  cheek  of  flame 
"With  morning's  earliest  beam  is  fed, 

The  sunset-painted  peach  may  claim 
To  rival  its  celestial  red. 

What  though  in  some  immoistened  vale 
The  summer  leaf  grow  bro^vn  and  sere, 

Say,  shall  our  star  of  promise  fail 
That  circles  half  the  rolling  sphere, 

From  beaches  salt  with  bitter  spray, 
O'er  prairies  green  with  softest  rain, 

And  ridges  bright  with  evening's  ray. 
To  rocks  that  shade  the  stormless  main  ? 

If  by  our  slender-threaded  streams 
The  blade  and  leaf  and  blossom  die, 

If,  drained  by  noontide's  parching  beams. 
The  milky  veins  of  Nature  dry, 

See,  with  her  swelling  bosom  bare. 
Yon  wild-eyed  Sister  in  the  West,  — 

The  ring  of  Empire  round  her  hair,  — 
The  Indian's  wampum  on  her  breast ! 


THE  NEW  EDEN.  269 

We  saw  the  August  sun  descend, 

Day  after  day,  witli  blood-red  stain, 
And  the  blue  mountains  dimly  blend 

"With  smoke-wreaths  from  the  burning  plain ; 

Beneath  the  hot  Sirocco's  wings 

We  sat  and  told  the  withering  hours. 
Till  Heaven  unsealed  its  azure  springs. 

And  bade  them  leap  in  flashing  showers. 

Yet  in  our  Ishmael's  thirst  we  knew 

The  mercy  of  the  Sovereign  hand 
"Would  pour  the  fountain's  quickening  dew 

To  feed  some  harvest  of  the  land. 

No  flaming  swords  of  wrath  surround 

Our  second  Garden  of  the  Blest ; 
It  spreads  beyond  its  rocky  boimd, 

It  climbs  Nevada's  gUttering  crest. 

God  keep  the  tempter  from  its  gate ! 

God  shield  the  children,  lest  they  fall 
From  their  stern  fathers'  free  estate, 

Till  Ocean  is  its  only  wall  1 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES-THIRTY  lEARS  AGO. 

By  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


CAJVIB RIDGE  has  long  had  its  port,  but  the  greater 
part  of  its  maritime  trade  was,  thii-ty  years  ago,  in- 
trusted to  a  single  Argo,  the  sloop  Harvard,  which  belonged 
to  the  College,  and  made  annual  voyages  to  that  vague 
Orient,  known  as  Down  East,  bringing  back  the  wood  that 
in  those  days  gave  to  winter  life  at  Harvard  a  crackle  and 
a  cheerfulness,  for  the  loss  of  which  the  greater  wannth 
of  anthracite  hardly  compensates.  New  England  life,  to 
be  genuine,  must  have  in  it  some  sentiment  of  the  sea,  — 
it  was  this  instinct  that  printed  the  device  of  the  pine-tree 
on  the  old  money  and  the  old  flag,  and  these  periodic  ven- 
tures of  the  sloop  .  Harvard  made  the  old  Viking  fibre 
vibrate  in  the  hearts  of  all  tha  village  boys.  What  a  vista 
of  mystery  and  adventure  did  her  saihng  open  to  us  ! 
With  what  pride  did  we  hail  her  return !  She  was  our 
scholiast  upon  Robinson  Crusoe  and  the  Mutiny  of  the 
Bounty.  Her  captain  still  lords  it  over  our  memories, 
the  greatest  sailor  that  ever  sailed  the  seas,  and  we  should 
not  look  at  Sir  John  Franklin  himself  with  such  admiring 
I'nterest  as  that  with  which  we  enhaloed  some  larger  boy 
who  had  made  a  voyage  in  her,  and  had  come  back  with- 
out braces  to  his  trousers  {gallowses  we  called  them)  and 
squirting  ostentatiously  the  juice  of  that  weed  which  still 
gave  him  little  private  retm-ns  of  something  very  like  sea- 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES  —  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.      S71 

sickness.  All  our  shingle  vessels  were  shaped  and  rigge<?. 
by  her,  who  was  our  glass  of  naval  fashion  and  our  mould 
of  aquatic  form.  We  had  a  secret  and  wild  delight  in 
believing  that  she  carried  a  gun,  and  imagined  her  sending 
grape  and  canister  among  the  treacherous  savages  of  Old- 
to\vn.  Inspired  by  her  were  those  first  essays  at  navigation 
on  the  "Winthrop  duck-pond  of  the  plucky  boy  who  was 
afterward  to  serve  two  famous  years  before  the  mast. 

The  greater  part  of  what  is  now  Cambridgeport  was  then 
(in  the  native  dialect)  a  huckleberry  pastur.  "Woods  were 
not  wanting  on  its  outskirts,  of  pine,  and  oak,  and  maple, 
and  the  rarer  tupelo  with  downward  limbs.  Its  veins  did 
not  draw  their  blood  from  the  quiet  old  heart  of  the  village, 
but  it  had  a  distinct  being  of  its  own,  and  was  rather  a 
great  caravansary  tharj  a  suburb.  The  chief  feature  of 
the  place  was  its  inns,  of  which  there  were  five,  with  vast 
bams  and  court-yards,  w'hich  the  railroad  was  to  make  as 
silent  and  deserted  as  the  palaces  of  Nimroud.  Great 
wliite-topped  wagons,  each  drawn  by  double  files  of  six 
or  eight  horses,  with  its  dusty  bucket  swinging  from  the 
hinder  axle,  and  its  grim  bull-dog  trotting  silent  undenieath, 
or  in  midsummer  panting  on  the  lofty  perch  beside  the 
driver  (how  elevated  thither  baffled  conjecture),  brought 
all  the  wares  and  products  of  the  country  to  their  mart 
and  seajjort  in  Boston.  Those  filled  the  inn-yards,  or 
were  ranged  side  by  side  under  broad-roofed  sheds,  and  far 
into  the  night  the  mirth  of  their  lusty  drivers  clamored 
from  the  red-curtained  bar-room,  while  the  single  lantern 
swaying  to  and  fro  in  the  black  cavern  of  the  stables  made 
a  Rembrandt  of  tlie  group  of  hostlers  and  horses  below. 
There  were,  beside  the  taverns,  some  huge  square  stores 
where  groceries  were  sold,  some  liouses,  by  whom  or  why 
inhabited  was  to  us  boys  a  problem,  and,  on  the  edge  of  the 
marsh,  a  currier's  shop,  where,  at  higli  tide,  on  a  floating 
platform,  men  were  always  beatuig  skins  in  a  way  to  remind 


272  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

one  of  Don  Quixote's  fulling-niills.  Nor  did  thes<i  mate 
all  the  Port.  As  there  is  always  a  Coming  Man  who  never 
comes,  so  there  is  a  man  who  always  comes  (it  may  be 
only  a  quarter  of  an  hour)  too  early.  This  man,  as  far  as 
the  Port  is  concerned,  was  Rufus  Davenport.  Looking  at 
the  marshy  flats  of  Cambridge,  and  considering  their  near- 
ness to  Boston,  he  resolved  that  there  should  grow  up  a 
suburban  Venice.  Accordingly,  the  mai"shes  were  bought, 
canals  were  dug,  ample  for  the  commerce  of  both  Indies, 
"and  four  or  five  rows  of  brick  houses  were  built  to  meet 
the  first  wants  of  the  wading  settlers  who  were  expected 
to  rush  in  —  whence  ?  This  singular  question  had  never 
occurred  to  the  enthusiastic  projector.  There  are  laws 
which  govern  human  migrations  quite  beyond  the  control 
of  the  speculator,  as  many  a  man  with  desirable  buUding- 
lots  has  discovered  to  liis  cost.  Why  mortal  men  will  pay 
more  for  a  chess-board  square  in  that  swamp  than  for  an 
acre  on  the  breezy  upland  close  by,  who  shall  say  ?  And 
again,  why,  having  shown  such  a  passion  for  your  swamp, 
they  are  so  coy  of  mine,  who  shall  say  ?  Not  cei*tainly  any 
one  who,  like  Davenport,  had  got  up  too  early  for  his  gen- 
eration. If  we  could  only  carry  that  slow,  imperturbable 
old  dock  of  Opportunity,  that  never  strikes  a  second  too 
soon  or  too  late,  in  our  fobs,  and  push  the  hands  forward 
as  we  can  those  of  our  watches !  With  a  foreseeing  econ- 
omy of  spjice  which  now  seems  ludicrous,  the  roofs  of  this 
forlorn  hope  of  houses  were  made  flat  that  the  swarming 
population  might  have  where  to  dry  their  clothes.  But 
A^  U.  C.  30  showed  the  same  view  as  A.  U.  C.  1,  —  only 
that  the  brick  blocks  looked  as  if  they  had  been  struck  by  a 
malaria.  The  dull  weed  upholstered  the  decaying  wharves, 
and  the  only  freight  that  heaped  them  was  the  kelp  and 
eelgrass  left  by  higher  floods.  In3tead  of  a  Venice,  behold 
a  Torzelo !  The  unfortunate  projector  took  to  the  last 
refuge  of  the   unhappy,  —  bookmaking,  —  and  bored  the 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES  —  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.      273 

reluctant  public  with  what  he  called  a  Rightaim  Testament, 
prefaced  by  a  recommendation  from  General  Ja<^.kson,  who 
perhaps,  from  its  title,  took  it  for  some  treatise  on  ball- 
practice. 

But  even  Cambridgeport,  my  dear  Storg,  did  not  want 
associations  poetic  and  venerable.  The  stranger  who  took 
the  "  Hourly "  at  Old  Cambridge,  if  he  were  a  physiog- 
nomist and  student  of  character  might  perhaps  have  had 
his  curiosity  excited  by  a  person  who  mounted  the  coach 
at  the  Port.  So  refined  was  his  whole  appearance,  so 
fastidiously  neat  his  apparel,  —  but  with  a  neatness  that 
seemed  less  the  result  of  care  and  plan  than  a  something 
as  proper  to  the  man  as  whiteness  to  the  lily,  —  that  you 
would  have  at  once  classed  him  with  those  individuals, 
rarer  than  great  captains  and  almost  as  rare  as  great  poets, 
whom  nature  sends  i^ito  the  world  to  fill  the  arduous  office 
of  Gentleman.  Were  you  ever  emperor  of  that  Barataria 
which  under  your  peaceful  sceptre  would  present,  of  course, 
a  model  of  government,  this  remarkable  person  should  be 
Duke  of  Bienseance  and  Master  of  Ceremonies.  There 
are  some  men  whom  destiny  has  endowed  with  the  faculty 
of  external  neatness,  whose  clothes  are  repellant  of  dust 
and  mud,  whose  unwithering  wliite  neckcloths  persevere 
to  the  day's  end,  unappeasably  seeing  the  sun  go  down 
upon  their  starch,  and  whose  linen  makes  you  fancy  them 
heii-s  in  the  maternal  line  to  the  instincts  of  all  the  wash- 
erwomen from  Eve  downward.  There  are  others  whose 
inward  natures  possess  this  fatal  cleanness,  incapable  of 
moral  dirt-spot.  You  are  not  long  in  discovering  that  the 
stranger  combines  in  himself  both  these  properties.  A 
nimbus  of  hair,  fine  as  an  infant's,  and  early  white,  show- 
ing refinement  of  organization  and  the  predominance  of 
the  spiritual  over  the  physical,  undulated  and  floated  around 
a  face  that  seemed  like  pale  flame,  and  over  which  the  flit- 
ting shades  of  expression  chased  each  other,  fugitive  and 

18 


274  JA5IES  EUSSELL  LOWELL. 

gleaming  as  waves  upon  a  field  of  rye.  It  was  a  counte- 
nance that,  without  any  beauty  of  feature,  was  very  beau- 
tiful. I  have  said  that  it  looked  like  pale  flame,  ar.d  can 
find  no  other  words  for  the  impression  it  gave.  Here  was 
a  man  all  soul,  whose  body  seemed  only  a  lamp  of  finest 
clay,  whose  service  was  to  feed  with  magic  oils,  rare  and 
fragrant,  that  wavering  fire  wliich  hovered  over  it.  You, 
who  are  an  adept  in  such  matters,  would  have  detected 
in  the  eyes  that  artist-look  which  seems  to  see  pictures  ever 
in  the  air,  and  which,  if  it  fall  on  you,  makes  you  feel  as 
if  all  the  world  were  a  gallery,  and  yourself  the  rather 
indifferent  Portrait  of  a  Gentleman  himg  therein.  As  the 
stranger  brushes  by  you  in  alighting,  you  detect  a  single 
incongmity,  —  a  smell  of  dead  tobacco-smoke.  You  ask 
liis  name,  and  the  answer  is,  IMr.  Allston. 

"  Mr.  Allston ! "  and  you  resolve  to  note  down  at  once 
in  your  diary  every  look,  every  gesture,  every  word  of  the 
great  painter  ?  Not  in  the  least.  You  have  the  true  An- 
glo-Norman indifference,  and  most  likely  never  tliink  of 
Iiim  again  till  you  hear  that  one  of  his  pictures  has  sold 
for  a  great  price,  and  then  contrive  to  let  your  grand- 
cliildren  know  twice  a  week  that  you  met  him  once  in  a 
coach,  and  that  he  said,  "  Excuse  me,  sir,"  in  a  very  Titian- 
esque  manner  when  he  stumbled  over  your  toes  in  getting 
out.  Hitherto  Boswell  is  quite  as  unique  as  Shakespeare. 
The  country-gentleman,  journeying  up  to  London,  inquires 
of  Mistress  Davenant  at  the  Oxford  inn  the  name  of  his 
pleasant  companion  of  the  night  before.  "  Master  Shake- 
speare, an 't  please  your  worship,"  and  the  Justice,  not  with- 
out a  sense  of  unbending,  says,  "  Truly,  a  merry  and 
conceited  gentleman  ! "  It  is  lucky  for  the  peace  of  great 
men  tliat  the  world  seldom  finds  out  contemporaneously 
who  its  great  men  are,  or,  perhaps,  that  each  man  esteems 
himself  the  fortunate  he  who  shall  draw  the  lot  of  mem- 
ory from  the  helmet  of  the  future.     Had  the  eyes  of  some 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES  —  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.      275 

vStratford  burgess  been  achromatic  telescopes  capable  of  a 
perspective  of  two  hundred  years !  But,  even  then,  would 
not  his  record  have  been  fuller  of  says-Is  than  of  says-hes  ? 
Nevertheless,  it  is  curious  to  consider  from  what  infinitely 
varied  points  of  view  we  might  form  our  estimate  of  a  great 
man's  character,  when  we  remember  that  he  had  his  points 
of  contact  with  the  butcher,  the  baker,  and  the  candle-stick- 
maker,  as  well  as  with  the  ingenious  A,  the  sublime  B, 
and  the  Eight  Honorable  C.  If  it  be  true  that  no  man 
ever  clean  forgets  everything,  and  that  the  act  of  drowning 
(as  is  asserted)  forthwith  brightens  up  all  those  o'er-rusted 
impresS'ions,  would  it  not  be  a  curious  experiment,  if,  after 
a  remarkable  person's  death,  the  public,  eager  for  minutest 
particulars,  should  gather  together  all  who  had  ever  been 
brought  into  relations  with  liim,  and,  submerging  them  to 
the  hair's-breadth  hitherward  of  the  drowning-point,  subject 
them  to  strict  cross-examination  by  the  Humane  Society, 
as  soon  as  they  became  conscious  between  the  resuscitating 
blankets?  All  of  us  probably  have  brushed  against  des- 
tiny in  the  street,  have  shaken  hands  with  it,  fjdlen  asleep 
with  it  in  railway  carriages,  and  knocked  heads  with  it  in 
some  one  or  other  of  its  yet  unrecognized  incarnations. 

WiU  it  seem  like  presenting  a  tract  to  a  colporteur,  my 
dear  Storg,  if  I  say  a  word  or  two  about  an  artist  to  you 
over  there  in  Italy  ?  Be  patient,  and  leave  your  button  in 
my  grasp  yet  a  little  longer.  A  person  whose  opinion  is 
worth  having  once  said  to  me,  that,  however  one's  opinions 
might  be  modified  by  going  to  Europe,  one  always  came 
back  with  a  higher  esteem  for  Allston.  Ortaiiily  he  is 
thus  far  the  greatest  English  painter  of  historical  subjects. 
And  only  consider  how  strong  must  have  been  the  artistic 
bias  in  him  to  have  made  him  a  painter  at  all  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. Tliere  were  no  traditions  of  art,  so  necessary 
for  guidance  and  inspiration.  Blackburn,  Smibert,  Copley, 
TrumbuU,  Stuart,  —  it  Avas,  after  all,  but  a  Brentford  seep- 


276  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

tre  -vvhich  their  heirs  could  aspire  to,  and  theirs  were  not 
names  to  conjure  -with,  like  those  thi'ough  which  Fame,  as 
through  a  silver  trumpet,  had  blown  for  three  centuries. 
Copley  and  Stuart  were  both  remarkable  men,  but  the  one 
painted  like  an  inspired  silk-mercer,  and  the  other  seems  to 
have  mixed  liis  colors  with  the  claret  of  wliich  he  and  his 
generation  were  so  fond.  And  what  could  a  successful 
artist  hope  for  at  that  time  beyond  the  mere  wages  of  his 
work?  His  pictures  would  hang  in  cramped  back-parlors, 
between  deadly  cross-fires  of  lights,  sure  of  the  giirret  or 
the  auction-room  erelong,  in  a  country  where  the  nomad 
population  carry  no  household  gods  with  them  but  their  five 
wits  and  their  ten  fingers.  As  a  race,  we  care  notliing 
about  Art,  but  the  Puritan  and  the  Quaker  are  the  only 
Anglo-Saxons  who  have  had  pluck  enough  to  confess  it.  If 
it  were  surprising  that  Allston  should  have  become  a  painter 
at  all,  how  almost  miraculous  that  he  should  have  been  a 
great  and  original  one.  "We  call  him  original  deliberately, 
because,  though  his  school  is  essentially  Italian,  it  is  of  less 
consequence  where  a  man  buys  his  tools,  than  what  use  he 
makes  of  them.  Enough  English  artists  went  to  Italy  and 
came  back  painting  liistory  in  a  very  Anglo-Saxon  manner, 
and  creating  a  school  as  melodramatic  as  the  French,  with- 
out its  perfection  in  technicalities.  But  Allston  carried 
thither  a  nature  open  on  the  Southern  side,  and  brought 
it  back  so  steeped  in  rich  Italian  sunshine  that  the  east 
winds  (whether  physical  or  intellectual)  of  Boston  and  tlie 
dusts  of  Cambridgeport  assailed  it  in  vain.  To  that  bare 
wooden  studio  one  might  go  to  breathe  Venetian  air,  and 
better  yet,  the  very  spirit  wherein  the  elder  brtjfhers  of  Art 
labored,  etherealized  by  metaphysical  speculation,  and  sul> 
limed  by  religious  fervor.  The  beautiful  old  man !  Here 
was  genius  with  no  volcanic  explosions  (the  mechanic  result 
of  vulgar  gunpowder  often),  but  lovely  as  a  I<apland  night : 
here  was  fame,  not  sought  after  nor  worn   in   siny  cheap 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES  —  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.      277 

French  fiishion  as  a  ribbon  at  the  button-hole,  but  so  gentle, 
so  retiring,  that  it  seemed  no  more  than  an  assured  and  em- 
boldened modestT  ;  here  was  ambition,  undebased  by  rivalry 
and  incapable  of  ihe  downward  look ;  and  aU  these  massed 
and  harmonized  together  into  a  purity  and  depth  of  charac- 
ter, into  a  tone,  which  made  the  daily  life  of  the  man  the 
greatest  masterpiece  of  the  artist. 

But  let  us  go  to  the  Old  Town.  Thirty  years  since,  the 
IMuster  and  the  Comwallis  allowed  some  vent  to  those  natu- 
ral instincts  which  Puritanism  scotched,  but  not  killed.  The 
Comwallis  had  entered  upon  the  estates  of  the  old  Guy 
Fawkes  procession,  confiscated  by  the  Revolution.  It  was 
a  masquerade,  in  which  that  grave  and  suppressed  humor 
of  which  the  Yankees  are  fuller  than  other  people,  burst 
through  aU  restraints,  and  disported  itself  in  all  the  wildest 
vagaries  of  fun.  It' is  a  curious  commentary  on  the  artifi- 
ciality of  our  lives,  that  men  must  be  disguised  and  masked 
before  they  wiU  venture  into  the  obscurer  comers  of  their 
individuality,  and  display  the  true  features  of  their  nature. 
One  remarked  it  in  the  Carnival,  and  one  especially  noted 
it  here  among  a  race  naturally  self-restrained ;  for  Silas, 
and  Ezra,  and  Jonas  were  not  only  disguised  as  Redcoats, 
Continentiils,  and  Indians,  but  not  unfrequently  disguised  in 
drink  also.  It  is  a  question  whether  the  Lyceum,  where 
the  ])ublic  is  obliged  to  comj)rehcnd  all  vagrom  men,  sup- 
plies the  place  of  the  old  pojiular  amusements.  A  hundred 
and  fifty  }ears  ago.  Cotton  Mather  bewails  the  carnal  attrac- 
tions of  the  tavem  and  the  training-field,  and  tells  of  an  old 
Indian,  who  imperfectly  understood  the  English  tongue,  but 
desperately  mastered  enough  of  it  (when  under  sentence  of 
death)  to  express  a  desire  for  instant  hemp  rather  than 
listen  to  any  more  ghostly  consolations.  Puritanism  —  I 
am  perfectly  aware  how  great  a  debt  we  owe  it  —  tried  over 
again  the  old  experiment  of  driving  out  nature  with  a  j)itch- 
fork,  and  had  the  usual  success.    It  was  like  a  ship  inwardly 


278  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

on  firo,  whose  hatches  must  be  kept  hermetically  battened 
down,  for  the  admittance  of  an  ounce  of  heaven's  own  natu- 
ral air  would  explode  it  utterly.  Morals  can  never  be 
safely  embodied  in  the  constable.  Polished,  cultivated,  fas- 
cinating Mephistophiles !  it  is  for  the  ungovernable  break- 
ings-away  of  the  soul  from  unnatural  compressions  that  thou 
waitest  with  a  patient  smile.  Then  it  is  that  thou  ofFerest 
thy  gentlemanly  arm  to  unguarded  youth  for  a  pleasant 
stroll  through  the  City  of  Destruction,  and,  as  a  special 
favor,  introducest  him  to  the  bewitching  Miss  Circe,  and  to 
that  model  of  the  hospitable  old  English  gentleman,  Mr. 
Comus ! 

But  the  Muster  and  the  Cornwallis  were  not  peculiar  to 
Cambridge.  Commencement  Day  was.  Saint  Pedagogus 
was  a  worthy  whose  feast  could  be  celebrated  by  men 
who  quarrelled  with  minced-pies  and  blasphemed  custard 
through  the  nose.  The  holiday  preserved  all  the  features 
of  an  English  fair.  Stations  were  marked  out  beforehand 
by  the  town  constables,  and  distinguished  by  numbered 
stakes.  These  were  assigned  to  the  dilBferent  vendors  of 
small  wares,  and  exhibitors  of  rarities,  whose  canvas  booths, 
beginning  at  the  market-place,  sometimes  half  encircled  the 
common  with  their  jovial  embrace.  Now,  all  the  Jehoiada- 
boxes  in  town  were  forced  to  give  up  all  their  rattling 
deposits  of  specie,  if  not  through  the  legitimate  orifice,  then 
to  the  brute  force  of  the  hammer.  For  hither  were  come 
all  the  wonders  of  the  world,  making  the  Arabian  Nights 
seem  possible,  and  which  we  beheld  for  half  price,  not  with- 
out mingled  emotions,  —  pleasure  at  the  economy,  and  shame 
at  not  paying  the  more  manly  fee.  Here  the  mummy  un- 
veiled her  withered  charms,  a  more  marvellous  Ninon,  still 
attractive  in  her  three  thousandth  year.  Here  were  the 
'Siamese  Twins  —  ah,  if  all  such  enforced  and  unnatural 
unions  were  made  a  show  of!  Here  were  the  flying-horses 
(their  supernatural  effect  injured  —  like  that  of  some  po- 


CAMBRIDGE   WORTHIES  —  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.      279 

ems  —  bj  the  visibility  of  the  man  who  turned  the  crank), 
on  which,  as  we  tilted  at  the  ring,  we  felt  our  shoulders  tin- 
gle with  the  accolade,  and  heard  the  clink  of  golden  spurs 
at  our  heels.  Are  the  realities  of  life  ever  worth  half  so 
much  as  its  cheats?  and  are  there  any  feasts  half  so  filling 
at  the  price  as  those  Barmecide  ones  spread  for  us  by  Im- 
agination ?  Hither  came  the  Canadian  giant,  surrepti- 
tiously seen,  without  price,  as  he  alighted,  in  broad  day 
(giants  were  always  foolish),  at  the  tavern.  Hither  came 
the  great  horse  Columbus,  with  shoes  two  inches  thick,  and 
more  wisely  introduced  by  night.  In  the  trough  of  tlie 
town-pump  might  be  seen  the  mermaid,  its  poor  monkey's 
head  carefully  sustained  above  water  for  fear  of  drowning. 
There  were  dwarfs,  also,  who  danced  and  sang,  and  many  a 
proprietor  regretted  the  transaudient  properties  of  canvas, 
which  allowed  the  frugal  public  to  share  in  the  melody 
without  entering  the  booth.  Is  it  a  slander  of  J.  H.,  who 
reports  that  he  once  saw  a  deacon,  eminent  for  psalmody, 
lingering  near  one  of  these  vocal  tents,  and,  with  an  assumed 
air  of  abstraction,  furtively  drinking  in,  with  unhabitual  eai"s, 
a  song,  not  secular  merely,  but  with  a  dash  of  libertinism ! 
The  New  P^ngland  proverb  says,  "  All  deacons  are  good, 
but  —  there's  a  difference  in  deacons."  On  these  days 
Snow  became  super-terranean,  and  had  a  stand  in  the 
square,  and  Lewis  temperately  contended  with  the  stronger 
fascinations  of  egg-pop.  But  space  would  fail  me  to  make 
a  catalogue  of  everything.  No  doubt,  Wisdom  also,  as 
usual,  had  her  quiet  booth  at  the  corner  of  some  street, 
without  entrance-fee,  and,  even  at  that  rate,  got  nevcsr  a 
customer  the  whole  day  long.  For  the  bankrupt  afternoon 
there  were  peep-shows,  at  a  cent  each. 

But  all  these  shows  and  their  showers  are  as  clean  gone 
now  as  those  of  Cajsar  and  Timour  and  Napoleon,  for  wliirh 
the  world  paid  dearer.  They  are  utterly  gone  out,  not 
leaving  so  much  as  a  snuff  behind,  —  as  little  thought  of 


280  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

now  as  that  John  Robins,  who  was  once  so  considerable 
a  phenomenon  as  to  be  esteemed  the  last  gi-eat  Antichrist 
and  son  of  perdition  by  the  entire  sect  of  Muggletonians. 
Were  Commencement  what  it  used  to  be,  I  should  be 
tempted  to  take  a  booth  myself,  and  try  an  experiment 
recommended  by  a  satirist  of  some  merit,  whose  works 
were  long  ago  dead  and  (I  fear)  deedeed  to  boot:  — 

■■•Menenius,  thou  who  fain  wouldst  know  how  calmly  men  can  pass 
Those  biting  portraits  of  themselves,  disguised  as  fox  or  ass, —         , 
Go,  borrow  coin  enough  to  buy  a  full-length  psyche-glass, 
Engage  a  rather  darkish  room  in  some  well-sought  position, 
And  let  the  town  break  out  with  bills,  so  much  per  head  admission,— 
Great  Natural  Curiosity  ! !     The  Biggest  Living  Tool  !  1 1 
Arrange  your  mirror  cleverly,  before  it  set  a  stool, 
Admit  the  public  one  by  one,  place  each  upon  the  seat. 
Draw  up  the  curtain,  let  hira  look  his  fill,  and  then  retreat: 
Smith  mounts  and  takes  a  thorough  view,  then  comes  serenely  down. 
Goes  home  and  tells  his  wife  the  thing  is  curiously  like  Brown ; 
Brown  goes  and  stares,  and  tells  his  wife  the  wonder's  core  and  pith 
Is  that 't  is  just  the  counterpart  of  that  conceited  Smith  : 
Life  calls  us  all  to  such  a  show ;  Menenius,  trust  in  me, 
While  thou  to  see  thy  neighbor  smil'st,  he  does  the  same  for  thee ! " 

My  dear  Storg,  would  you  come  to  my  show,  and,  instead 
of  looking  in  my  glass,  insist  on  taking  your  money's  worth 
in  staring  at  the  exhibitor? 

Not  least  among  the  curiosities  which  the  day  brought 
together,  were  some  of  the  graduates,  posthumous  men,  as 
it  were  disentombed  from  country  parishes  and  district 
schools,  but  perennial  also,  in  whom  freshly  survived  all 
the  college  jokes,  and  who  had  no  intelligence  later  than 
their  Senior  year.  These  had  gatliered  to  eat  the  college 
dinner,  and  to  get  the  Triennial  Catalogue  (their  Libro  d'oro) 
referred  to  oftener  than  any  volume  but  the  Concordance. 
Aspiring  men  they  were,  certainly,  but  in  a  right,  unworldly 
way ;  this  scholastic  festival  opening  a  peaceful  path  to  the 
ambition  which  might  else  have  devasted  mankind  with 
Prolusions  on  the  Pentateuch,  or  Genealogies  of  the  Dor* 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES — THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.     281 

mouse  Family.  For,  since  in  the  Academic  processions 
the  classes  are  ranked  in  the  order  of  their  graduation,  and 
he  has  the  best  chance  at  the  dinner  who  has  the  fewest 
teeth  to  eat  it  with,  so  by  degrees  there  springs  up  a 
competition  in  longevity,  the  prize  contended  for  being  the 
oldest  surviving  graduateship.  This  is  an  office,  it  is  true, 
without  emolument,  but  having  certain  advantages,  never- 
theless. The  incumbent,  if  he  come  to  Commencement, 
is  a  prodigious  lion,  and  commonly  gets  a  paragraph  in  the 
newspapers  once  a  year  Avith  the  (fiftieth)  last  survivor  of 
Washington's  Life  Guard.  If  a  clergyman,  he  is  expected 
to  ask  a  blessing  and  return  thanks  at  the  dinner,  a  function 
which  he  performs  with  centenarian  longanimity,  as  if  he 
reckoned  the  ordinary  life  of  man  to  be  fivescore  years, 
and  that  a  grace  must  be  long  to  reach  so  very  far  away 
as  heaven.  Accordingly,  this  silent  race  is  watched,  on 
the  course  of  the  catalogue,  with  an  interest  worthy  of 
Newmarket ;  and,  as  star  after  star  rises  in  tliat  galaxy  of 
death,*  till  one  name  is  left  alone,  an  oasis  of  life  in  the 
StelUu*  desert,  it  grows  solemn.  The  natural  feeling  is 
reversed,  and  it  is  the  solitary  life  that  becomes  sad  and 
monitory,  the  Stylites,  there,  on  the  lonely  top  of  his  cen- 
tury-pillar, who  has  heard  the  passing-bell  of  youth,  love, 
friendsliip,  hope,  —  of  everything  but  immitigable  eld. 

Dr.  K.  was  President  of  the  University  then,  a  man  of 
genius,  but  of  genius  that  evaded  utilization,  a  great  water- 
power,  but  without  rapids,  and  flowing  >vith  too  smooth  and 
gentle  a  current  to  be  set  turning  wheels  and  whirling 
spindles.  His  was  not  that  restless  genius,  of  which  the 
man  seems  to  be  merely  the  representative,  and  which 
wreaks  itself  in  literature  or  politics,  but  of  that  milder 
sort,  quite  as  genuine,  and  perhaps  of  more  contempora- 
neous value,  which  is  the  man,  permeating  a  whole  life 
with  placid  force,  and  giving  to  word,  look,  and  gesture  a 
meaning  only  justifiable  by  our  belief  in  a  reserved  power 


282  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

of  latent  reinforcement.  The  man  of  talents  possesse? 
them  like  so  many  tools,  does  his  job  with  them,  and  there 
an  end ;  but  the  man  of  genius  is  possessed  by  it,  and  it 
makes  him  into  a  book  or  a  life  according  to  its  whim. 
Talent  takes  the  existing  moulds  and  makes  its  castings, 
better  or  worse,  of  richer  or  baser  metal,  according  to  knack 
and  opportunity ;  but  genius  is  always  shaping  new  ones 
and  runs  the  man  in  them,  so  that  there  is  always  that 
human  feel  in  its  results  which  gives  us  a  Idndred  thrUl. 
What  it  will  make  we  can  only  conjecture,  contented  always 
with  knowing  the  infinite  balance  of  possibility  against 
which  it  can  draw  at  pleasure.  Have  you  ever  seen  a 
man  whose  check  would  be  honored  for  a  million  pay  his 
toll  of  one  cent,  and  has  not  that  bit  of  copper,  no  bigger 
than  your  own  and  piled  with  it  by  the  careless  toUman, 
given  you  a  tingling  vision  of  what  golden  bridges  he  could 
pass,  into  what  Elysian  regions  of  taste  and  enjoyment  and 
culture,  barred  to  the  rest  of  us  ?  Something  like  it  is  the 
impression  made  by  such  characters  as  K.'s  on  those  who 
come  in  contact  with  them. 

There  was  that  in  the  soft  and  rounded  (I  had  almost 
said  melting)  outlines  of  his  face  wluch  reminded  one  of 
Chaucer.  The  head  had  a  placid  yet  dignified  di-oop  like 
his.  He  was  an  anachronism,  fitter  to  have  been  Abbot  of 
Fountains  or  Bishop  Golias,  courtier  and  priest,  humorist 
and  lord  spiritual,  all  in  one,  than  for  the  mastership  of  a 
provincial  college  which  combined  with  its  purely  scholastic 
functions  those  of  accountant  and  chief  of  police.  For 
keeping  books  he  was  incompetent,  (unless  it  were  those  he 
borrowed,)  and  the  only  discipline  he  exercised  was  by  the 
unobtrusive  pressure  of  a  gentlemanliness  which  rendered 
insubordination  to  him-  impossible.  But  the  world  always 
judges  a  man  (and  rightly  enough,  too)  by  his  little  fault;* 
which  he  shows  a  hundred  times  a  day,  rather  than  by  his 
great  virtues  which  he  discloses  perhaps  but  once  in  a  life- 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES  —  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.     283 

time  and  to  a  single  person,  nay,  in  proportion  as  they  are 
rarer,  and  as  he  is  nobler,  is  shier  of  letting  their  existence 
be  known  at  all.  He  was  one  of  those  misplaced  persons 
whose  misfortune  it  is  that  their  lives  overlap  two  distinct 
eras,  and  are  already  so  impregnated  with  one,  that  they  can 
never  be  in  healthy  sympathy  with  the  other.  Bom  when 
the  New  England  clergy  were  still  an  establishment  and  an 
aristocracy,  and  when  office  was  almost  always  for  life  and 
often  hereditary,  he  lived  to  be  thrown  upon  a  time  when 
avocations  of  all  colors  might  be  shuffled  together  in  the  life 
of  one  man  like  a  pack  of  cards,  so  that  you  could  not 
prophesy  that  he  who  was  ordained  to-day  might  not  ac- 
cept a  colonelcy  of  filibusters  to-morrow.  Such  tempera- 
ments as  his  attach  themselves  like  barnacles  to  what  seems 
permanent,  but  presently  the  good  sliip  Progress  weighs 
anchor  and  whirls  thpm  away  from  drowsy  tropic  inlets  to 
arctic  waters  of  unnatural  ice.  To  such  crustacequs  na- 
tures, created  to  cling  upon  the  immemorial  rock  amid 
softest  mosses,  comes  the  busthng  Nineteenth  Century,  and 
says,  "  Come,  come,  bestir  yourself  to  be  practical :  get  out 
of  that  old  shell  of  yours  forthwith  !  "  Alas,  to  get  out  of 
the  sheU  is  to  die ! 

One  of  the  old  travellers  in  South  America  tells  of  fishes 
that  built  their  nests  in  trees  (piscium  et  summa  hcesit  genus 
ulmo),  and  gives  a  print  of  the  mother  fish  upon  her  nest, 
while  her  mate  mounts  peri)endicularly  to  her  without  aid 
of  legs  or  wings.  Life  shows  plenty  of  such  incongniities 
between  a  man's  place  and  his  nature,  (not  so  easily  got 
over  as  by  the  traveller's  undoubting  engraver,)  and  one 
cannot  help  fancying  that  K.  was  an  instance  in  point.  lie 
never  encountered,  one  would  say,  the  attraction  proper 
to  draw  out  his  native  force.  Certainly  few  men  who 
impressed  others  so  strongly,  and  of  whom  so  many  good 
things  are  remembered,  left  less  behind  them  to  justify 
contemporary  estimates.      He  printed  nothing,   and  was, 


284  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

perhaps,  one  of  those  the  electric  sparkles  of  whose  brains, 
discharged  naturally  and  healthily  in  conversation,  refuse 
to  pass  through  the  non-conducting  medium  of  the  inkstand. 
His  ana  would  make  a  delightful  collection.  One  or  two 
of  his  official  ones  will  be  in  place  here.  Hearing  that 
Porter's  flip  (which  was  exemplary)  had  too  great  an  at- 
traction for  the  coUegians,  he  resolved  to  investigate  the 
matter  himself.  Accordingly,  entering  the  old  inn  one  day, 
he  called  for  a  mug  of  it,  and,  having  drunk  it,  said,  "  And 
so,  Mr.  Porter,  the  young  gentlemen  come  to  drink  your 
flip,  do  they?" 

"  Yes  sir  —  sometimes." 

"  Ah,  well,  I  should  think  they  would.  Good  day,  Mr. 
Porter,"  and  departed,  saying  nothing  more,  for  he  always 
wisely  allowed  for  the  existence  of  a  certain  amount  of 
human  nature  in  ingenuous  youth.  At  another  time  the 
"  Harvard  "Washington  "  asked  leave  to  go  into  Boston  to 
a  collation  which  had  been  offered  them.  "  Certainly, 
young  gentlemen,"  said  the  President,  "  but  have  you  en- 
gaged any  one  to  bring  out  your  muskets  ?  "  —  the  CoUege 
being  responsible  for  these  weapons,  which  belonged  to  the 
State.  Again,  when  a  student  came  with  a  physician's 
certificate,  and  asked  leave  of  absence,  K.  granted  it  at 
once,  and  then  added,  "  By  the  way,  Mr. ,  persons  in- 
terested in  the  relation  which  exists  between  states  of  the 
atmosphere  and  health,  have  noticed  a  curious  fact  in  regard 
to  the  climate  of  Cambridge,  especially  within  the  CoUege 
limits,  —  the  very  small  number  of  deaths  in  proportion  to 
the  cases  of  dangerous  illness."  This  is  told  of  Judge  W., 
himself  a  wit,  and  capable  of  enjoying  the  humorous  deli- 
cacy of  the  reproof. 

Shall  I  take  Brahmin  Alcott's  favorite  word,  and  call  him 
a  dsemonic  man  ?  No,  the  Latin  genius  is  quite  old-fash- 
ioned enough  for  me,  means  the  same  thing,  and  its  deriva- 
tive geniality  expresses,  moreover,  the  base  of  K.'s  being. 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES  —  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.     285 

How  lie  suggested  cloistered  repose  and  quadrangles  mossy 
with  centurial  associations !  How  easy  he  was,  and  how 
without  creak  was  every  movement  of  his  mind  !  This  life 
was  good  enough  for  him,  and  the  next  not  too  good.  The 
gentlemanlike  pervaded  even  his  prayers.  His  were  not 
the  manners  of  a  man  of  the  world,  nor  of  a  man  of  the 
other  world  either,  but  both  met  in  him  to  balance  each 
other  in  a  beautiful  equilibrium.  Praying,  he  leaned  for- 
ward upon  the  pulpit-cushion  as  for  conversation,  and  seemed 
to  feel  himself  (without  irreverence)  on  terms  of  friendly  but 
courteous  familiarity  with  Heaven.  The  expression  of  his 
face  was  that  of  tranquil  contentment,  and  he  appeared  less 
to  be  supplicating  expected  mercies  than  thankful  for  those 
already  found,  as  if  he  were  saying  the  gratias  in  the  refec- 
tory of  the  Abbey  of  Theleme.  Under  him  flourished  the 
Harvard  Wasliington  Corps,  whose  gyrating  banner,  in- 
scribed Tam  Marti  'quant  Mercurio  (atqui  magis  Ia/cbo 
should  have  been  added),  on  the  evening  of  training-days, 
was  an  accurate  dynamometer  of  "Willard's  punch  or  Por- 
tei''s  flip.  It  was  tliey  who,  after  being  royally  entertsiined 
by  a  maiden  lady  of  the  town,  entered  in  tlieir  orderly  book 
a  vote  that  Miss  Blank  was  a  gentleman.  I  see  them  now, 
returning  from  the  imminent  deadly  breach  of  the  law  of 
Rechab,  unable  to  form  other  than  the  serpentine  line  of 
beauty,  while  their  officers,  brotherly  rather  than  imperious, 
instead  of  repiimanding,  tearfully  embraced  the  more  eccen- 
tric wanderers  from  military  precision.  Under  him  the 
Med.  Facs.  took  their  equal  place  among  the  learned  socie- 
ties of  Europe,  numbering  among  their  grateful  honorary 
members  Alexander,  Emperor  of  all  the  Russias,  who  (if 
College  legends  may  be  trusted)  sent  them,  in  return  for 
their  diploma,  a  gift  of  medals,  confiscjited  by  the  authori- 
ties. Under  him  the  College  flre-engine  was  vigilant  and 
active  in  suppressing  any  tendency  to  spontaneous  combus- 
tion among  the  Freshmen,  or  rushed  wildly  to  inuiginary 


286  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

conflagrations,  generally  in  a  direction  where  punch  was 
to  be  had.  All  these  useful  conductors  for  the  natural 
electricity  of  youth,  dispersing  it  or  turning  it  harmlessly 
into  the  earth,  are  taken  away  now,  wisely  or  not,  is  ques- 
tionable. 

An  academic  town,  in  whose  atmosphere  there  is  always 
something  antiseptic,  seems  naturally  to  draw  to  itself  cer- 
tain varieties  and  to  preserve  certain  humors  (in  the  Ben 
Jonsonian  sense)  of  character,  —  men  who  come  not  to  study 
so  much  as  to  be  studied.  At  the  head-quarters  of  Wash- 
ington once,  and  now  of  the  Muses,  lived  C ,  but  before 

the  date  of  these  recollections.  Here  for  seven  years  (as 
the  law  was  then)  he  made  his  house  his  castle,  sunning 
himself  in  his  elbow-chair  at  the  front-door,  on  that  seventh 
day,  secure  from  every  arrest  but  that  of  Death.  Here 
long  survived  him  his  turbaned  widow,  studious  only  of  Spi- 
noza, and  refusing  to  molest  the  cauker-worras  that  annually 
disleaved  her  elms,  because  we  were  all  vermicular  alilie. 
She  had  been  a  famous  beauty  once,  but  the  canker  years 
had  left  her  leafless  too,  and  I  used  to  wonder,  as  I  saw  her 
sitting  always  alone  at  her  accustomed  window,  whether  she 
were  ever  visited  by  the  reproachful  shade  of  him  who  (in 
spite  of  Rosalind)  died  broken-hearted  for  her  in  her  radi- 
ant youth. 

And  tliis  reminds  me  of  J.  F.,  who,  also  crossed  in  love, 
allowed  no  mortal  eye  to  behold  his  face  for  many  years. 
Tlie  eremitic  instinct  is  not  peculiar  to  the  Thebais,  as  many 
a  New  England  village  can  testify,  and  it  is  worthy  of  con- 
sideration that  the  Romish  Church  has  not  forgotten  this 
among  her  other  points  of  intimate  contact  with  human 
nature.  F.  became  purely  vespei*tinal,  never  stirring  abroad 
till  after  dark.  He  occupied  two  rooms,  migrating  from  one 
to  the  other  as  the  necessities  of  house^\ifery  demanded, 
and  when  it  was  requisite  that  he  should  put  his  signature 
to  any  legal  instrument,  (for  he  was  an  anchorite  of  ample 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES — THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.      287 

means,)  he  wrapped  himself  in  a  blanket,  allowing  nothing 
to  be  seen  but  the  hand  which  acted  as  scribe.  Wliat  im- 
pressed us  boys  more  than  anything  was  the  rumor  that  he 
had  suffered  his  beard  to  grow,  such  an  anti-Sheffieldism 
being  almost  unheard  of  in  those  days,  and  the  peculiar 
ornament  of  man  being  associated  in  our  minds  with  noth- 
ing more  recent  than  the  patriarchs  and  apostles,  whose 
effigies  we  were  obliged  to  solace  ourselves  with  weekly  in 
the  Family  Bible.  He  came  out  of  his  oysterhood  at  last, 
and  I  knew  him  well,  a  kind-hearted  man,  who  gave  annual 
sleigh-rides  to  the  town  paupers,  and  supplied  the  poorer 
children  with  school-books.  His  favorite  topic  of  conversa- 
tion was  Eternity,  and,  like  many  other  worthy  persons,  he 
used  to  fancy  that  meaning  was  an  affair  of  aggregation,  and 
that  he  doubled  the  intensity  of  what  he  said  by  the  sole  aid 
of  the  multiplication-table.  "Eternity!"  he  used  to  say, 
"  it  is  not  a  day ;  it  is  not  a  year ;  it  is  not  a  hundred  years  ; 
it  is  not  a  thousand  years ;  it  is  not  a  million  years ;  no,  sir  " 
(the  sir  being  thrown  in  to  recall  wandering  attention),  "it 
is  not  ten  million  years  ! "  and  so  on,  his  enthusiasm  becom- 
ing a  mere  frenzy  when  he  got  among  his  sextillions,  till  I 
sometimes  wished  he  had  continued  in  retirement.  He  used 
to  sit  at  the  open  window  dui'ing  thunder-storms,  and  had  a 
Grecian  feeling  about  death  by  lightning.  In  a  certain 
sense  he  had  his  desire,  for  he  died  suddenly,  —  not  by  fire 
from  heaven,  but  by  the  red  flash  of  apoplexy,  leaving  his 
whole  estate  to  charitable  uses. 

If  K.  were  out  of  place  as  president,  that  was  not  P.  as 
Greek  professor.  Who  that  ever  saw  him  can  forget  him, 
in  liis  old  age,  like  a  lusty  winter,  frosty  but  kindly,  with 
great  silver  spectacles  of  the  heroic  period,  such  as  scarce 
twelve  noses  of  these  degenerate  days  could  bear  ?  He  was 
a  natural  celibate,  not  dwelHng  "  like  the  fly  in  the  heart  of 
the  apple,"  but  hke  a  lonely  bee,  rather,  absconding  himself 
in  Ilymettian  flowers,  incapable  of  matrimony  as  a  solitary 


288  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

palm-tree.  There  was  not  even  a  tradition  of  youthful  dis- 
appointment. I  fancy  him  arranging  his  scrupulous  toilet, 
not  for  Amaryllis  or  Neaera,  but,  like  Machiavelli,  for  the 
society  of  his  beloved  classics.  His  ears  had  needed  no 
prophylactic  wax  to  pass  the  Sirens'  isle,  nay,  he  would 
have  kept  them  the  wider  open,  studious  of  the  dialect  in 
which  they  sang,  and  perhaps  triumphantly  detecting  the 
-^olic  digamma  in  their  lay.  A  thoroughly  single  man, 
single-minded,  single-hearted,  buttoning  over  his  single  heart 
a  single-breasted  surtout,  and  wearing  always  a  hat  of  a 
single  fashion,  —  did  he  in  secret  regard  the  dual  number  of 
liis  favorite  language  as  a  weakness  ?  The  son  of  an  officer 
of  distinction  in  the  Revolutionary  War,  he  mounted  the 
pulpit  with  the  erect  port  of  a  soldier,  and  carried  his  cane 
more  in  the  fashion  of  a  weapon  than  a  staff,  but  with  the 
point  lowered  in  token  of  surrender  to  the  peaceful  proprie- 
ties of  his  calling.  Yet  sometimes  the  martial  instincts 
would  burst  the  cerements  of  black  coat  and  clerical  neck- 
cloth, as  once  when  the  students  had  got  into  a  fight  upon 
the  training-field,  and  the  licentious  soldiery,  furious  with 
rum,  had  driven  them  at  point  of  bayonet  to  the  College 
gates,  and  even  threatened  to  lift  their  arms  against  the 
Muses'  bower.  Then,  like  Major  Goffe  at  Deerfield,  sud- 
denly appeared  the  gray-haired  P.,  all  his  father  resurgent 
in  him,  and  shouted,  "  Now,  my  lads,  stand  your  ground ; 
you  're  in  the  right  now !  don't  let  one  of  them  get  inside 
the  College  grounds!"  Thus  he  allowed  arms  to  get  the 
better  of  the  toga,  but  raised  it,  like  the  Prophet's  breeches, 
into  a  banner,  and  carefully  ushered  resistance  with  a  pre- 
amble of  infringed  right.  Fidelity  was  his  strong  charac- 
teristic, and  burned  equably  in  him  through  a  life  of  eighty- 
three  years.  He  drilled  himself  till  inflexible  habit  stood 
sentinel  before  all  those  postem-weaknesses  which  tempera- 
ment leaves  unbolted  to  temptation.  A  lover  of  the  schol- 
ar's herb,  yet  loving  freedom  more,  and  knowing  that  the 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES — THIRTY  TEARS  AGO.     289 

animal  appetites  ever  hold  one  hand  behind  them  for  Satan 
to  drop  a  bribe  in,  he  would  never  have  two  cigars  in  his 
house  at  once,  but  walked  every  day  to  the  shop  to  fetch  his 
single  diurnal  solace.  Nor  would  he  trust  himself  with  two 
on  Saturdays,  preferring  (since  he  could  not  violate  the  Sab- 
bath even  by  that  infinitesimal  traffic)  to  depend  on  Provi- 
dential ravens,  which  were  seldom  wanting  in  the  shape  of 
some  black-coated  friend  who  knew  his  need  and  honored 
the  scruple  that  occasioned  it.  He  was  faithful  also  to  his 
old  hats,  in  which  appeared  the  constant  sendee  of  the  an- 
tique world,  and  which  he  preserved  forever,  piled  Hke  a 
black  pagoda  under  his  dressing-table.  No  scarecrow  was 
ever  the  residuary  legatee  of  Ms  •  beavers,  though  one  of 
them  in  any  of  the  neighboring  peach-orchards  would  have 
been  sovran  against  an  attack  of  Freshmen.  He  wore  them 
all  in  turn,  getting  through  all  in  the  course  of  the  year,  like 
the  sun  through  the  'signs  of  the  Zodiac,  modulating  them 
according  to  seasons  and  celestial  phenomena,  so  that  never 
was  spider-web  or  chickweed  so  sensitive  a  weather-gauge 
as  they.  Nor  did  his  political  party  find  him  less  loyal. 
Taking  all  the  tickets,  he  would  seat  himself  apart,  and  care- 
fully compare  them  with  the  list  of  regular  nominations  as 
printed  in  his  Daily  Advertiser  before  he  dropped  his  ballot 
in  the  box.  In  less  ambitious  moments,  it  almost  seems  to 
me  that  I  would  rather  have  had  that  slow,  conscientious 
vote  of  P.'s  alone,  than  have  been  chosen  alderman  of  the 
ward! 

If  you  had  walked  to  what  was  then  Sweet  Auburn,  by 
the  pleasant  Old  Road,  on  some  June  morning  thirty  years 
ago,  you  would,  very  likely,  have  met  two  other  character- 
istic persons,  both  phantasmagoric  now  and  belonging  to  the 
Past.  Fifty  years  earlier,  the  scarlet-coated,  rapiered  fig- 
ures of  Vassall,  Oliver,  and  Brattle  creaked  up  and  down 
there  on  red-heeled  shoes,  lifting  the  ceremonious  three- 
cornered  hat  and  offering  the  fugacious  hospitalities  of  the 
19 


290  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

snuff-box.  They  are  all  shadowy  alike  now,  not  one  of 
your  Etruscan  Lucumos  or  Roman  consuls  more  so,  my 
dear  Storg.  First  is  TV.,  his  queue  slender  and  tapering 
like  the  tail  of  a  violet  crab,  held  out  horizontally,  by  the 
high  collar  of  his  shepherd's-gray  overcoat,  whose  style  was 
of  the  latest  when  he  studied  at  Leyden  in  his  hot  youth. 
The  age  of  cheap  clothes  sees  no  more  of  those  faitliful  old 
garments,  as  proper  to  their  wearers,  and  as  distinctive  as 
the  barks  of  trees,  and  by  long  use  interpenetrated  with 
their  very  nature.  Nor  do  we  see  so  many  humors  (still 
in  the  old  sense)  now  that  every  man's  soul  belongs  to  the 
Public,  as  when  social  distinctions  were  more  marked,  and 
men  felt  that  their  personalities  were  their  castles,  in  which 
they  could  entrench  themselves  against  the  world.  Now-a- 
days  men  are  shy  of  letting  their  true  selves  be  seen,  as  if 
in  some  former  life  they  had  committed  a  crime,  and  were 
all  the  time  afraid  of  discovery  and  arrest  in  this.  For- 
merly they  used  to  insist  on  your  giving  the  wall  to  their 
peculiarities,  and  you  may  still  find  examples  of  it  in  the 
parson  or  the  doctor  of  retired  villages.  One  of  "W.'s  oddi- 
ties was  touching.  A  little  brook  used  to  run  across  the 
street,  and  the  sidewalk  was  carried  over  it  by  a  broad  stone. 
Of  course,  there  is  no  brook  now.  What  use  did  tliat  little 
glimpse  of  ripple  serve,  where  the  children  used  to  launch 
their  chip  fleets  ?  W.,  in  going  over  this  stone,  which  gave 
a  hollow  resonance  to  the  tread,  used  to  strike  upon  it  three 
times  with  his  cane,  and  mutter  Tom !  Tom !  Tom !  I  used 
to  think  he  was  only  mimicking  with  his  voice  the  soimd  of 
the  blows,  and  possibly  it  was  that  sound  which  suggested 
his  thought, — for  he  was  remembering  a  favorite  nephew 
prematurely  dead.  Perhaps  Tom  had  sailed  his  boats 
there ;  perhaps  the  reverberation  under  the  old  man's  foot 
hinted  at  the  hollowness  of  life ;  perhaps  the  fleeting  eddies 
of  the  water  brought  to  mind  the  fugaces  annos.  W.,  like 
P.,  wore  amazing  spectacles,  fit  to  transmit  no  smaller  image 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES  —  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.     291 

than  the  page  of  mightiest  folios  of  Dioscorides  or  Hercules 
de  Saxonia,  and  rising  full-disked  upon  the  beholder  like 
those  prodigies  of  two  moons  at  once,  portending  change  to 
monarchs.  The  great  collar  disallowing  any  independent 
rotation  of  the  head,  I  remember  he  used  to  turn  his  whole 
person  in  order  to  bring  their  foci  to  bear  upon  an  object. 
One  can  fancy  that  terrified  nature  would  have  yielded  up 
her  secrets  at  once,  without  cross-examination,  at  their  first 
glare.  Through  them  he  had  gazed  fondly  into  the  great 
mare's-nest  of  Junius,  publishing  his  observations  upon  the 
eggs  found  therein  in  a  tall  octavo.  It  was  he  who  intro- 
duced vaccination  to  this  "Western  World.  He  used  to  stop 
and  say  good  morning  kindly,  and  pat  the  shoulder  of  the 
blusliing  school-boy  who  now,  with  the  fierce  snow-storm 
wildei-ing  without,  sits  and  remembers  sadly  those  old  meet- 
ings and  partings  in  the  June  sunshine. 

Then  there  was  S.^  whose  resounding  "  Haw !  haw !  haw ! 
by  George ! "  positively  enlarged  the  income  of  every  dwell- 
er in  Cambridge.  In  downright,  honest  good  cheer  and 
good  neighborhood,  it  was  worth  five  hundred  a  year  to 
every  one  of  us.  Its  jovial  thunders  cleared  the  mental  air 
of  every  sulky  cloud.  Pei'petual  childhood  dwelt  in  him, 
the  cliildhood  of  his  native  Southern  France,  and  its  fixed 
air  was  all  the  time  bubbling  up  and  sparkling  and  wmking 
in  his  eyes.  It  seemed  as  if  his  placid  old  face  were  only  a 
mask  behind  wliich  a  merry  Cupid  had  ambushed  himself, 
peeping  out  all  the  while,  and  ready  to  di'op  it  when  the 
play  grew  tiresome.  Every  word  he  uttered  seemed  to  be 
hilarious,  no  matter  what  the  occasion.  If  he  were  sick  and 
you  visited  liim,  if  he  had  met  with  a  misfortune  (and  there 
are  few  men  so  wise  tliat  they  can  look  even  at  the  back  of 
a  retiring  sorrow  with  composure),  it  was  all  one ;  his  great 
laugh  went  off  as  if  it  were  set  like  an  alarum-clock,  to  run 
down,  whether  he  would  or  no,  at  a  certain  nick.  Even 
after  an  ordinary  good-morning  I  (especially  if  to  an  old 


292  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

pupil,  and  in  French,)  the  wonderful  Haw  !  haw  !  haw  !  hy 
George !  would  burst  upon  you  unexpectedly,  like  a  salute 
of  artillery  on  some  holiday  which  you  had  forgotten.  Ev- 
erytliing  was  a  joke  to  him,  —  that  the  oath  of  allegiance 
had  been  administered  to  him  by  your  grandfather,  —  that 
he  had  taught  Prescott  his  first  Spanish  (of  wliich  he  was 
proud),  —  no  matter  what.  Everything  came  to  him  marked 
by  nature  —  right  side  up,  with  care,  and  he  kept  it  so. 
The  world  to  him,  as  to  all  of  us,  was  like  a  medal,  on  the 
obverse  of  which  is  stamped  the  image  of  Joy,  and  on  the 
reverse  that  of  Care.  S.  never  took  the  foolish  pains  to 
look  at  that  other  side,  even  if  he  knew  its  existence ;  much 
less  would  it  have  occurred  to  him  to  turn  it  into  view  and 
insist  that  his  friends  should  look  at  it  with  him.  Nor  was 
this  a  mere  outside  good-humor ;  its  source  was  deeper  in  a 
true  Christian  kindliness  and  amenity.  Once  when  he  had 
been  knocked  down  by  a  tipsUy-driven  sleigh,  and  was  m-ged 
to  prosecute  the  offenders,  —  "  No,  no,"  he  said,  his  wounds 
stiU  fresh,  "young  blood!  young  blood!  it  must  have  its 
way ;  I  was  young  myself."  Was  !  few  men  come  into  life 
so  young  as  S.  went  out.  He  landed  in  Boston  (then  the 
front-door  of  America)  in  '93,  and,  in  honor  of  the  cere- 
mony, had  his  head  powdered  afresh  and  put  on  a  suit  of 
court-mourning  before  he  set  foot  on  the  wharf.  My  fancy 
always  dressed  him  in  that  violet  silk,  and  his  soul  certainly 
wore  a  full  court-suit  "What  was  there  ever  Uke  his  bow  ? 
It  was  as  if  you  had  received  a  decoration,  and  could  write 
yourself  gentleman  from  that  day  forth.  His  hat  rose,  re- 
greeting  your  own,  and  having  sailed  through  the  stately 
curve  of  the  old  regime,  sank  gently  back  over  that  placid 
brain  which  harbored  no  thought  less  wliite  than  the  powder 
which  covered  it.  I  have  sometimes  imagined  that  there 
was  a  graduated  arc  over  his  head,  invisible  to  other  eyes 
than  his,  by  which  he  meted  out  to  each  his  rightful  share 
of  castorial  consideration.     I  carry  in  my  memory  three 


CAMBRIDGE  WORTHIES  —  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.     293 

exemplary  bows.  The  first  is  that  of  an  old  beggar,  who 
already  carrying  in  his  hand  a  white  hat,  the  gift  of  benevo- 
lence, took  off  the  black  one  from  his  head  also,  and  pro- 
foundly saluted  me  with  both  at  once,  giving  me,  in  return 
for  my  alms,  a  dual  benediction,  puzzling  as  a  nod  from 
Janus  Bifrons.  The  second  I  received  from  an  old  Cardinal 
who  was  taking  his  walk  just  outside  the  Porta  San  Gio- 
vanni at  Rome.  I  paid  him  the  courtesy  due  to  his  age  and 
rank.  Forthwith  rose  —  first  the  Hat ;  second,  the  hat  of 
his  confessor;  third,  that  of  another  priest  who  attended 
him ;  fourth,  the  fringed  cocked-hat  of  his  coachman ;  fifth 
and  sixth,  the  ditto,  ditto,  of  his  two  footmen.  Here  was  an 
investment,  indeed ;  six  hundred  per  cent  interest  on  a  sin- 
gle bow !  The  third  bow,  worthy  to  be  noted  in  one's  alma- 
nac among  the  other  mirabilia,  was  that  of  S.  in  which 
courtesy  had  mounted  to  the  last  round  of  her  ladder,  —  and 
tried  to  draw  it  up  aflter  her. 

But  the  genial  veteran  is  gone  even  whUe  I  am  writing 
this,  and  I  will  play  Old  Mortality  no  longer.  "Wandering 
among  these  recent  graves,  my  dear  friend,  we  may  chance 

to but  no,  I  will  not  end  my  sentence.     I  bid  you 

heartily  farewell ! 


BEET  HOVE  N. 

A  LETTEB  TO  GOETHE. 

By   BETTINA   YON   AENIM 

IT  is  Beethoven  of  whom  T  will  now  speak  to  you,  and 
with  whom  I  have  forgotten  the  world  and  you :  true, 
I  am  not  ripe  for  speaking,  but  I  am  nevertheless  not  mis- 
taken when  I  say  (what  no  one  understands  and  believes) 
that  he  far  surpasses  all  in  mind,  and  whether  we  shall 
ever  overtake  him?  —  I  doubt  it!  may  he  only  live  fill 
that  mighty  and  sublime  enigma  which  hes  withia  his 
spirit  be  matui'ed  to  its  lu'ghest  perfection !  Yes,  may  he 
reach  liis  highest  aim,  then  will  he  surely  leave  a  key  to 
heavenly  knowledge  in  our  hands  which  will  bring  us  one 
Btep  nearer  to  true  happiness. 

To  you  I  may  confess,  that  I  believe  in  a  divine  magic, 
which  is  the  element  of  mental  nature ;  this  magic  does 
Beethoven  exercise  in  his  art ;  all  relating  to  it  which  he 
can  teach  you  is  pure  magic;  each  combination  is  the 
organization  of  a  higher  existence :  and  thus,  too,  does 
Beethoven  feel  himself  to  be  the  founder  of  a  new  sensual 
basis  in  spiritual  life.  You  wUl  understand  what  I  mean 
to  sky  by  this,  and  what  is  true.  Who  could  replace  this 
spirit?  from  whom  could  we  expect  an  equivalent?  The 
whole  business  of  mankind  passes  to  and  fro  before  him 
like  clock-work ;  he  alone  produces  freely  from  out  himself 
the  unforeseen,  the  uncreated.     Wliat  is  intercoui-se  with 


BEETHOVEN.  295 

the  world  to  him  who  ere  the  sunrise  is  already  at  hia 
sacred  work,  and  who  after  sunset  scarcel;j  looks  abound 
him,  —  who  forgets  to  nourish  his  body,  and  is  borne  in 
his  flight  on  the  stream  of  inspiration  far  beyond  the  shores 
of  that  every-day  life  ?  He  says  himself:  "  When  I  open 
my  eyes,  I  cannot  but  sigh,  for  what  I  see  is  against  my 
religion,  and  I  am  compelled  to  despise  the  world,  which 
has  no  presenthnent  that  music  is  a  higher  revelation  than 
aU  their  Avisdom  and  philosophy.  Music  is  the  wine  which 
inspires  new  creations ;  and  I  am  the  Bacchus  who  presses 
out  this  noble  wine  for  mankind,  and  makes  them  spirit- 
drunk;  and  then,  when  they  are  sober  again,  what  have 
they  not  fished  up  to  bring  with  them  to  dry  land  ?  I  have 
no  friend ;  I  must  live  with  myself  alone ;  but  I  well  know 
that  God  is  nearer  to  me  in  my  art  than  to  others.  I  com- 
mune with  him  without  dread ;  I  have  ever  acknowledged 
and  understood  him ;  |ieither  have  I  any  fear  for  my  mu- 
sic ;  it  can  meet  no  evil  fate.  He  to  whom  it  makes  itself 
intelligible  must  become  freed  from  aU  the  wretchedness 
which  others  drag  about  with  them."  AU  tliis  did  Beetho- 
ven say  to  me  the  first  time  I  saw  him.  A  feeling  of  rev- 
ence  penetrated  me,  as,  with  such  friendly  openness,  he 
uttered  his  mind  to  me,  who  could  have  been  only  very 
unimportant  to  him.  I  was  surprised,  too,  because  I  had 
been  told  he  was  very  shy,  and  conversed  with  no  one. 

They  were  afraid  to  introduce  me  to  him,  and  I  was 
forced  to  find  him  out  alone.  He  has  three  dwellings,  in 
which  he  alternately  secretes  himself;  one  in  the  country, 
one  in  the  town,  and  the  tliird  upon  the  bulwarks.  Here 
I  found  him  upon  the  third  floor ;  unannounced,  I  entered, 
—  he  was  seated  at  the  piano ;  I  mentioned  my  name :  he 
was  very  friendly,  and  asked  if  I  would  hear  a  song  that  ho 
had  just  composed;  then  he  sung,  slirill  and  piercing,  so 
that  the  plaintiveness  reacted  upon  the  hearer,  "  Kno-v'st 
thou  the  land."     "It  's  beautiful,  is  it  not?"  said  he    in 


29 G  BETTINA  VON  ARNIM. 

spired,  "most  beautiful!  I  will  sing  it  again."  He  was 
delighted  at  my  cheerful  praise.  "  Most  men,"  said  he,  are 
touched  by  something  good,  but  they  are  no  artist-natures ; 
artists  are  ardent,  they  do  not  weep."  Then  he  sung  an- 
other of  your  songs,  to  which  he  had  a  few  days  ago  com- 
posed music,  "Dry  not  the  tears  of  eternal  love."  He 
accompanied  me  home,  and  it  was  upon  the  way  that  he 
said  so  many  beautiful  things  upon  art ;  withal  he  spoke  so 
loud,  stood  still  so  often  upon  the  street,  that  some  courage 
was  necessary  to  listen;  he  spoke  passionately  and  much 
too  startlingly  for  me  not  also  to  forget  that  we  were  in  the 
street.  They  were  much  surprised  to  see  me  enter,  with 
liira,  in  a  large  company  assembled  to  dine  with  us.  After 
dinner,  he  placed  himself,  unasked,  at  the  instrument,  and 
played  long  and  wonderfully:  his  pride  and  genius  were 
both  in  ferment;  under  such  excitement  his  spirit  creates 
the  inconceivable,  and  his  fingers  perform  the  impossible. 
Since  tliis  he  comes  every  day,  or  I  go  to  him.  For  this 
I  neglect  parties,  picture-galleries,  theatres,  and  even  St. 
Stephen's  tower  itself.  Beethoven  says,  "  Ah !  what  should 
you  see  there  ?  I  will  fetch  you,  and  towards  evening  we 
will  go  through  the  Schonbrunn  alley."  Yesterday,  I 
walked  with  him  in  a  splendid  garden,  in  full  blossom,  all 
the  hot-houses  open ;  the  scent  was  overpowering.  Beetho- 
ven stood  still  in  the  burning  sun,  and  said,  "  Goetlie's 
poems  maintain  a  powerful  sway  over  me,  not  only  by  their 
matter,  but  also  their  rhythm ;  I  am  disposed  and  excited 
to  compose  by  this  language,  which  ever  forms  itself,  as 
through  spirits,  to  more  exalted  order,  already  carrying 
within  itself  the  mystery  of  harmonies.  Then,  from  the 
focus  of  inspiration,  I  feel  myself  compelled  to  let  the  mel- 
ody stream  forth  on  all  sides.  I  follow  it,  —  passionately 
overtake  it  again;  I  see  it  escape  me,  vanish  amidst  the 
crowd  of  varied  excitements,  —  soon  I  seize  upon  it  again 
with  renewed  passion;  I  cannot  part  from  it,  —  with  quick 


BEETHOVEN.  297 

rapture  I  multiply  it,  in  every  form  of  modulation,  —  and 
at  the  last  moment,  I  triumpli  over  the  first  musical  thought, 
—  see  now,  —  that 's  a  symphony ;  —  yes,  music  is  indeed 
the  mediator  between  the  spu-itual  and  sensual  life.  I 
should  like  to  speak  with  Goethe  upon  this,  if  he  would 
understand  me.  Melody  is  the  sensual  life  of  poetry.  Do 
not  the  spiritual  contents  of  a  poem  become  sensual  feeling 
through  melody?  Do  we  not  in  Mignon's  song  perceive 
its  entire  sensual  frame  of  mind  through  melody  ?  and  does 
not  this  perception  excite  again  to  new  productions  ?  There, 
the  spirit  extends  itself  to  unbounded  universality,  where 
all  in  all  forms  itself  into  a  bed  for  the  stream  of  feelings 
wliich  take  their  rise  in  the  simple  musical  thought,  and 
which  else  would  die  unperceived  away ;  this  is  harmony, 
tliis  is  expressed  in  my  symphonies ;  the  blending  of  vai'ious 
forms  rolls  on  as  in  a  bed  to  its  goal.  Then  one  Teels  that 
an  Eternal,  an  Infinife,  never  quite  to  be  embraced,  lies  in 
all  that  is  spiritual;  and  although  in  my  works  I  have 
always  a  feeling  of  success,  yet  I  have  an  eternal  hunger, 
— that  what  seemed  exhausted  with  the  last  stroke  of  the 
drum  with  which  I  drive  my  enjoyment,  my  musical  con- 
victions, into  the  hearers,  —  to  begin  again  like  a  child. 
Speak  to  Goethe  of  me,  tell  him  he  should  hear  my  sym- 
phonies ;  he  would  then  allow  me  to  be  right  in  saying  that 
music  is  the  only  unembodied  entrance  into  a  higher  sphere 
of  knowledge  which  possesses  man,  but  he  will  never  be 
able  to  j)ossess  it.  One  must  have  rhythm  in  the  mind  to 
comprehend  music  in  its  essential  being;  music  gives  pre- 
sentiment, inspiration  of  heavenly  knowledge ;  and  that 
which  the  spirit  feels  sensual  in  it  is  the  embodying  of  spir- 
itual knowledge.  Although  the  spirits  live  upon  music,  as 
one  lives  upon  air,  yet  it  is  something  else  spiritually  to 
understand  it ;  but  the  more  the  soul  draws  out  of  it  its  sen- 
sual nourishment,  the  more  ripe  does  the  spirit  become  foi 
a  happy  intelligence  with  it.     But  few  attain  to  this;  fofj 


298  BETTINA  VON  ARNDI. 

as  thousands  engage  themselves  for  love's  sake,  and  among 
these  thousands  love  does  not  once  reveal  itself,  although 
they  all  occupy  themselves  of  love,  in  like  manner  do 
thousands  hold  communion  with  music,  and  do  not  possess 
its  revelation :  signs  of  an  elevated  moral  sense  form,  too, 
the  groundwork  of  music,  as  of  every  art.  All  genuine 
invention  is  a  moral  progress.  To  subject  one's  self  to 
music's  unsearchable  laws ;  by  virtue  of  these  laws  to  curb 
and  guide  the  spirit,  so  that  it  poure  forth  these  revelations, 
this  is  the  isolating  principle  of  art ;  to  be  dissolved  in  its 
revelations,  this  is  abandonment  to  genius,  which  tranquilly 
exercises  its  authority  over  the  delu'ium  of  unbridled  pow- 
ers; and  thus  grants  to  fancy  the  liighest  efficacy.  Thus 
does  art  ever  represent  divinity,  and  that  which  stands  in 
human  relation  to  it  is  religion ;  what  we  acquire  through 
art  is  from  God,  a  divine  suggestion,  which  sets  up  a  goal 
for  human  capacities,  which  the  spirit  attains. 

"  "We  do  not  know  what  grants  us  knowledge ;  the  firmly 
enclosed  seed  needs  the  moist,  warm,  electric  soil  to  gi'ow, 
think,  express  itself.  Music  is  the  electric  soil  in  wliich  the 
spirit  lives,  thinks,  invents.  Philosophy  is  the  precipitation 
of  its  electric  spirit;  and  its  necessity,  wliich  will  ground 
eveiy thing  upon  a  first  principle,  is  supplied  by  music; 
and  although  the  spirit  be  not  master  of  that  which  it 
creates  through  music,  yet  is  it  blessed  in  tliis  creation; 
in  this  manner,  too,  is  every  creation  of  art  independent; 
mightier  than  the  artist  himself,  and  returas  by  its  appear- 
ance back  to  the  divine ;  and  is  only  connected  with  men, 
in  so  much  as  it  bears  witness  to  the  divine  mediation 
in  him. 

"Music  gives  to  the  spirit  relation  to  harmony.  A 
thought  abstracted  has  still  the  feeling  of  communion,  of 
affinity,  in  the  spirit ;  thus  each  thought  in  music  is  in  the 
most  intimate,  inseparable  affinity  with  the  communion  of 
hai-mony,  which  is  unity. 


BEETHOVEN.  299 

"  The  electric  excites  the  spirit  to  musical,  fluent,  stream- 
ing production. 

"  I  am  of  electric  nature.  I  must  break  off  with  my 
unwitnessed  wisdom,  else  I  shall  miss  the  rehearsal ;  write 
to  Goethe  about  me,  if  you  understand  me;  but  I  can 
answer  nothing,  and  I  wiU  willingly  let  myself  be  instructed 
by  him."  I  promised  him  to  write  to  you  all,  as  weU  as  I 
could  understand  it.  He  took  me  to  a  grand  rehearsal, 
with  full*  orchestra,  —  there  I  sat  in  the  wide,  imlighted 
space,  in  a  box  quite  alone ;  single  gleams  stole  tlirough 
the  crevices  and  knot-holes,  in  which  a  stream  of  bright 
sparks  were  dancing,  like  so  many  streets  of  light,  peopled 
by  happy  spirits. 

There,  then,  I  saw  this  mighty  spirit  exercise  his  rule. 
O  Goethe !  no  emperor  and  no  king  feels  such  entire  con- 
sciousness of  his  power,  and  that  all  power  proceeds  from 
him,  as  this  Beethoven,  who  just  now,  in  the  garden,  in  vain 
sought  out  the  source  from  which  he  receives  it  all ;  did  I 
understand  him  as  I  feel  him,  then  I  should  know  every- 
thing. There  he  stood  so  firmly  resolved,  —  his  gestures, 
his  countenance,  expressed  the  completion  of  Ids  creation ; 
he  prevented  each  error,  each  misconception  ;  not  a  breath 
was  voluntary  ;  all,  by  the  genial  presence  of  his  spirit,  set 
in  the  most  regulated  activity.  One  could  prophesy  that 
such  a  spirit,  in  its  later  perfection,  would  step  forth  again 
as  ruler  of  the  earth. 


A  SONG  PROM  THE  ARCADIA. 

Bt  sir  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 


SINCE  Nature's  works  be  good,  and  death  doth  serve 
As  Nature's  work :  why  should  we  fear  to  die  ? 
Since  fear  is  vain  but  when  it  may  preserve  : 
Why  should  we  fear  that  which  we  cannot  fly  ? 

Fear  is  more  pain  than  is  the  pain  it  fears, 
Disarming  human  minds  of  native  might : 
While  each  conceit  an  ugly  figure  bears, 
Which  were  not  iU,  well  viewed  in  reason's  light. 

Our  only  eyes,  which  dimmed  with  passions  be, 
And  scarce  discern  the  dawn  of  coming  day, 
Let  them  be  cleared,  and  now  begin  to  see, 
Our  life  is  but  a  step  in  dusty  way. 

Then  let  us  hold  the  bliss  of  peaceful  mind, 
Since  this  we  feel,  great  loss  we  cannot  find. 


Cambridge  i  Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  ft  Co. 


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